Yellow Roses For Christmas
– Alina Rastam
I got her roses.
They sit on the dining table,
in their blue vase, lighting up the room.
Yellow, her favourite.
A few days earlier, we fought.
As usual, I was mean, unkind;
she was resolute but not unkind, never unkind.
She spoke first, afterwards, asking me what I would like for lunch,
and then cooking it.
Sadness made her slow, all day, courteous and gentle but gone to that deep country of the drawn-in self.
I could not follow.
They never tell us about all this: how finding each other, falling in love, is just the beginning.
That love must be made over and over again, like
our strewn bed, every morning.
That there will be times we will look at each other and wonder what the hell we are doing here, why the hell we have wasted so much time when this is obviously wrong for us.
All those wasted years!
And they don’t tell you about how you will feel when you see the
pain blooming like the world’s most glorious rose in her eyes because of something you said, so cruel, something you
could not help saying, something neither of you will forget.
Or how, seeing her curled on her side, asleep, her face drawn and older than you remember, your heart will suddenly clench with the fear of losing her.
This will be a loss that will nail you forever to grief; a pain like a metal rod running through you to the roots of this world.
Then you will hold her tight and love will be there, amidst all the memories of all she has been to you.