A Single Yellow Rose

She knew he’d leave again. He did so each year. But he never left without the assurance, “I will return”. A single yellow rose sealed his promise this year.

On the day he left, December 21st, the island was brutally cold, a stark reminder of his departure. Palms and pines shivered in the humid chill as a north wind howled across the island, accentuating the sadness she always felt when he left.

Why must he always leave at the onset of winter, she wondered? She had asked this question often, receiving only the singular answer, “I must go…I have business elsewhere.” What could she say, much less do? Since late summer she had seen his mood swings and detected his longing for another journey. It was the detachment often seen in the restless.

She knew it was not possible to hold a lover, especially one whose essence suffused everything with beauty. No, for lovers, like memories, or children or joy, can only be embraced loosely. They must forever be free to come and to go. And if nothing else, he was a free spirit, moving upon the sun and wind to places undisclosed to her.

In his absence she clung to his promise. What was so special about a single yellow rose, she wondered? And why did only one appear continuously on a particular shrub near a certain swimming pool? Many varieties of roses and other flowering shrubs bloomed on the island in winter. Why not these as symbols of his promise? Intriguing, she thought, but concluded that a single rose sufficiently embodied his essence.

This unique rose bush produced only one yellow rose at a time. Strange how one would bloom and die, and another immediately appeared in its place. The rose bush was never without a single yellow rose. The winter sunlight magnified its reflection in the slight movements of the pool’s water, casting its dancing shadow upon the stucco walls of the house. Seeing it always gave her a sense of his presence.

She mourned his departure for several weeks, yet the small but daily tasks of living dulled the sadness of his absence. There were always things to do, especially since the days were shorter and time moved more slowly. And yes, some days teased of an early spring, when the sun shone brightly and warmed the air. But she knew it was too soon for his return.

Winter had its own special romance, she thought. There were days when the beaches were pristine and the ocean waters were calm as a lake. The sands were awash with shells left undisturbed, the children of summer having departed long ago. The sea gulls were now the regular beach crowd, each standing on one leg in the quiet lapping of the surf, gawked at by the Canadian “snow-birds” escaping the harshness of their own winter.

Island winters have a special rhythm. Spectacular sunsets settle over the green-brown marshes. Geese and storks wing silently across the orange flame over the tranquil estuaries. Small, indigenous birds, house wrens, chickadees and nut hatches mingle seamlessly at bird feeders with their migratory kin, the goldfinches, buntings and cedar wax wings. Small critters scurry in search of meals while deer feast nightly on the best of the island gardens.

Then there are the haunting night mysteries: the eerie sounds of falling leaves, mournful hoots of the owls and the wind’s murmur through the moss-bearded ancient oak and cedar trees. It reminded her of the spirits that had occupied the world long before she had been born. At night the moon and stars seemed to be holes of light punched in the sky’s deep blackness amid barely visible streaks of jet contrails.

As the days lengthened, she became more anxious for his return. Still, she found solace in the omnipresence of the single yellow rose that clung to the thorny branch. Forever faithful, she reminded herself…somehow it was always there. How thoughtful he was.

January and February came and went, and the brief hard winter was nearly over for another year. The days became longer, warmer, and her yearning for his return grew with intensity. She knew in her heart that he’d soon return, fulfilling the promise he had always kept.

The morning of March 20th began with a brilliant sunrise and the warmer southern sea breezes. Verdant new life was everywhere, as flowers exploded in bursts of color. Something about it told her that maybe this was the day of his return. In the yard by the pool, where a single yellow rose had bloomed all winter, was the rose bush, erupting profusely with lush yellow roses... his arrival bouquet!

So here he was again, ever true to his promise. He, the Vernal Equinox of Spring, had returned home to her, his mistress…she, this elegant island of coastal Georgia.

Bud Hearn
February 2, 2009