Gardens [11]

She was a rose garden.

The kind you see in old houses. The ones where the Lord of the Manor builds a stone garden for his wife and fills it with roses. He carves her a bench to sit on, and tells the gardeners to clear off at 10 in the morning so his lovely wife can sit in the silence, the breeze gently ruffling her skirts, and contemplate.

She was the rose garden.

The gift that gives.

Gave.

A smile when things go wrong. Gentle hands to wipe away tears, caress a face, run over smooth silky hair.

He watched from afar for years.

He watched her roses bloom, but never for him.

She danced through life sunlight glinting on golden locks. Larger than life, large as life, real. But never tangible.

When she laughed, with him, at him, next to him, but never for him, his heart would ache.

She gave him her friendship, held it out on a gilded plate. A bouquet of roses, their edges curly, their centres blushing, their scent tantalising.

She put her hand out, and when he took it, she let go.

He was there, you see, for all her joys and sadnesses, but never a part of them.

And he asked her. He asked her once, and she…

Said no.

She was the rose garden.

He only wanted one rose, but she was a rose garden.

The rose garden at Tatton Park, which inspires my thoughts. It was actually built by the Lord of the Manor for his wife, and he did indeed tell the gardeners to clear off at ten in the morning so his wife could enjoy the roses, undisturbed by anybody.

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