“There is a rose and it reminds me of you,” he said.
We were in the middle of a conversation, but he interrupted the rhythm of the words
that were dancing from our tongues.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I am looking outside at the garden and I see a rose on the rose bush and it reminds me of you.”
Perhaps he did not interrupt the rhythm, as I had thought, but instead, had decided to pull me close to him
before dipping me, my back arching like half of a rainbow.
“It is a color that I have not seen before and it is brighter than the others.
But it reminds me of you because it is so beautiful, and it has blossomed, but is also so delicate.
Strong and fragile at the same time.”
And I started the cry. The words were stuck in my throat.
But before I could speak, he pulled us back to our conversation,
pulled me back into his arms and then into our old dance,
and we went on.
But I will not forget
that he saw a rose
and it made him think of me
and he took the time
to tell me.