I carried many things. Many meaningless things. That day, I carried a black rose. A single black rose. My fascination for them came from my grandmother. I never liked roses but when I listened to my grandmother express her love for them, I grew interested. But what she didn’t know was that the roses were never really black. They were either a dark red or purple color. I never did tell her. I wish I did though.
       Black had surrounded me that day. The sky, our clothes, her dress. She looked beautiful and peaceful lying there in the casket. All I could think about was the black roses. I couldn’t think about my grandma lying in the casket. I couldn’t think about how she would never know that black roses were never black. I couldn’t think. My mind was heavy. The black rose felt like dead weight in my hands. It was fraying at the edges. It was no longer the perfect black rose my grandma always thought it to be.
        It was finally time to lay her to rest. I couldn’t stop the tears from tracing their path down my cheeks. I gripped the rose in one hand, the thorns threatening to prick me, and in my other hand I had her rosary wrapped around my arm. The rosary was clinging to my arm like a lost child. I looked down at her one last time and laid the rose and rosary next to her. Her face looked peaceful. I couldn’t help but let one more tear drop and as it fell, I felt all my burdens fall with it.