As I watched Erin, I observed that even the roses appeared pallid in her shadow. She mingled with them, her sun-bronzed hands caressing their petals. It seemed the quivering buds opened to her tender touch. She whispered to them softly as if they were small children waiting for a mother’s voice to wake them.

She loved Ireland’s emerald shores and the native roses that grew there, especially the varieties grown by her mother. She spoke of her often, describing her as a gentle woman who wore her auburn hair tossed atop her head like a regal tiara. She smiled each time she spoke her name, although sometimes tears fell upon her cheeks like morning dew.

Somehow Erin knew that she would never return to the Emerald Isle. She embraced a part of it each day as she gently gathered the velvet roses and held them to her breast. She smiled as she reminisced, remembering the day that the prized cuttings arrived from across the ocean.

I watched her still, as the cold north winds laid waste to her garden. As the petals began to fly, it seems that she began to perish along with them. Her body was weak, and she sensed in her heart that she was watching the petals take flight for the last time. As the roses shed their glory, so did she.

There came a day when she whispered in my ear, “Please…see that my roses are cared for”. With these words, she slowly slipped away from me. My beloved Erin was gone, like a leaf upon the wind. White roses draped her coffin like pearls on a string, just as she had requested.

As the warm breezes move in each year, I see her enchanting garden come to life, and I sense her presence near me. The fragrant petals, ruffled by the wind, spread their perfume, and I feel her spirit with me once more. I gather a bouquet and walk to her final resting place. Shamrocks are spreading in wild abandon on the landscaped plot. They seem to welcome me. I can almost see her smiling eyes and hear a hint of Irish laughter.

This year as the blooms begin their cascade, I realize that this could be my last season, too, and I have a promise to keep. Who will care for her beautiful roses/

After the velvet treasures drifted away for the final time, I made a tearful phone call. A truck pulled into my driveway within a few days. The roses were carefully uprooted and carried away. I kept my promise, for the buds will open in royal splendor next year in the state’s botanical gardens.

I will soon join my beloved wife, and wherever she may be, I know that Irish breezes, softly sighing, are whispering in her ear.

The end.

Copyright © 2006 Barbara Cagle Ray