The Life and Death of a Rose

Olivia McKee

The sun–its never-ceasing, ever-shining glow radiated warmth. The light pierced through the dark like a sword through fabric. It filtered through the clouds and spotted the earth with its glitter. It was a lovely spectacle from above, even sweeter within its glow. I was a mere seed at this time, but I still beheld the sun with the holy reverence it demanded. After all, it was my true life source.

I was picked up by a bluejay in its migration back home from wintertime. The flight was brief; my descent came quickly. I landed in a field of meticulously and strategically placed foliage; such a spectacle must have had a creator. Yet, how could a natural occurrence be orchestrated by anything other than nature? It was beyond my comprehension. It was a beautiful conception, nonetheless, that one who was crafted can do the crafting. Pondering.

As I lacked digits and limbs, my movement remained stagnant as my life sped by. I pondered this as I lay on the freshly turned soil in the masterfully crafted oasis. Days went by--the sun shines, the moon rises, birds fly. Day after day, my anticipation for the cumulation of my existence grew and grew. What would I metamorphose to? Would I be a rose? Or perhaps a tree? Maybe I would be a butterfly. As long as I wasn’t a weed, I would be pleased.

I wished to add value.

Time will tell, and until then, I remained stoic in lush plains, which was where I knew that I was because well, I did not recall how I knew. All I knew was what I knew, and not how it came to be. Days went by, and my change was still impending. Nothing seemed to be happening nor changing about me. Was I supposed to be doing something to expedite this process? Was I subconsciously squandering my potential? Was this anxiety? I did not even possess vital organs, and yet, the feeling I had felt very human.

Trepidation inundated every fiber of my germinating being until suddenly, I felt a release of pressure. A green stem emerged from my outer shell. My mind was put to rest as I realized I did not have to consciously change myself in order to reach the climax of my existence. I was finally relieved that I seemed to be reaching my full potential. Please, I didn’t want to be a weed. Let me be a rose. I yearned for a greater purpose than to choke and to kill.

I grew and grew, sprouting higher day by day. I couldn’t wait for the day I finally met the creator of the garden which I inhabited. I know that they will be so pleased to meet me. I went from being discreet and invisible to being tall and proud. Excitement flooded my mind as I thought about the masterful inventor behind the earthy home in which I resided.

Over time, I noticed the pattern of the moon it came, set, and disappeared; the sun did the same. My cyclic existence became obsolete, like my being. My purpose became awaiting the day I met the architect of this intricate sanctuary. There were days when I saw him, the tall man with the hat who watered and trimmed back the beautiful daisies. The care he took for each individual stem to sculpt his Eden was remarkable.

Would I finally be incorporated into the garden? Would I finally find out what plant I am? Was I a rose? I was tall, florid, and had thorns. I must have been. I have to be. Seconds felt like ages as my creator approached and reached out to me. My purpose was here. He grabbed my stem close to the root. The creator strategically repositioned me; I could sense it! One, two, three, he ripped up my roots, and I was gone.

I must have been a weed.