November 11th

I got a rose before work today. Picked it right out at the store... white, with pink tips. It was perfect, not fully open, but still beautiful.

Took it to the park with me and down the stairs to the river. I sat on the viewing platform close to the water. Broke the thorns off the steam, then the leaves, then the steam itself. Broke it into tiny pieces and tossed them into the water.

The petals were next. Velvety smooth and soft, almost like skin. I felt a little like Ophelia in Hamlet, the part when she goes crazy and is giving everyone flowers. Took the petals off one by one and let them follow the thorns and leafs. Each petal was given away with a wish, a memory.

I watched them as they floated on the current, drifting lightly over the stones and whirlpools in their way. I sat and watched even though it was cold and damp. Overcast and wet, but not rainy, just like last year on the same day. I suppose November is somewhat consistent like that.

When the last petal was out of sight I stood, staring at the water for a moment more before I may my way up to the house. No petal for remembrance, I don't need one. I don't ever plan to forget, and just knowing it's the 11th adds an odd flavor to whatever day that date falls on.

Never, ever, say that you can't wait to grow up.