My hair rustles with the leaves in the wind. They scrape along the concrete path. Cars race by, oblivious to the gloomy scene taking place. In my hand lay seven roses, their thorns stabbing my palms.

“Amen,” the crowd whispers, before dispersing to talk quietly. I stand, staring as guilt wraps around me, choking me. A tear in my eye. I try to blink it away, but it escapes down my cheek and onto my chest. Again, it happens. And again. I am now standing there, sobbing silently. A hand on my shoulder.

“It’s okay.” Only a whisper. “Are you?”

“Yes. Give me a minute.” I answer, sliding a rose into the hand on my shoulder.

Six roses.

“I promised. You promised. We promised.” I murmured. Lie.


Five Roses.

Every one was leaving now. I walked over to the hearse quickly, and put a rose on the seat.

“I’ll drive there. See you soon.”

Four roses.

The hearse drove off, and the others followed. I didn’t care about my outfit; I plopped on the ground, sobbing loudly than ever. “I hope you here this,” I thought. My fishnets snagged on a twig. I didn’t think of it.

“You said you loved me.”

Three roses.

Pacing, now. I started to look mad.

“Why did you break it?”

Thoughts. Unwanted.

“Don’t you know? You don’t break promises!”

Yelling.

“I didn’t break mine!”

More yelling.

Four roses on the coffin.

One in my hand.

Running. Shoes hitting dirt. Slipping. Balancing. Concrete. Keys jingling. Feet slapping shoes. Car. I have to stop. Not in time. A crash. A crack. The sky. On my feet. Eyes blurry. The door. It’s stuck. The keys. Where are the keys? Frantic. Key in lock, turn, take key out. Reminder. Am I really this stupid? The door is open. Sit. The seat sighs. I sob. One last rose, in my hand.

The rose stands for one thing. Lie. She lied. She did it first. She broke the promise. What should I do? Keep a broken promise? No. That’s not right. Promises are meant to be whole. Together. Not broken, not shattered.


One rose.

Car on. Still sobbing, I drive to her house. I walk in. No one is home. They didn’t lock the door. I walk to her room. She’ll never be in here again. I walk out. I walk out of the house, out of their lives. I hang onto my one rose; it is different. It doesn’t represent lies. It represents her. Her glory, her beauty, her loyalty, her strength, her ability, her life.

One rose, around my neck, in my hair, in my hand.

One rose. Time. It also meant time.