I’m awake in places I haven’t been awake in a long time. I’m alive in places where I’ve been dead for a long time.
He was the patriarch. A gentle soul who was strict when he needed to be. I was loved. I was scolded. I was indulged. I was disciplined. Despite the distance, I received a card on every birthday – and a present every Christmas. No soul ever forgets what it feels like to love and be loved by another human being.
I spent so much time in UK as a kid that everyone (except me) seems to remember all my childhood antics and habits. Yes – I really did eat food from the altar whilst grandma was praying. And yes – I really did spit out my pacifier whenever it was dinnertime. I see the look of confusion on my relatives’ faces as they walk through the door – a look that morphs into familiar recognition once I utter my name and remind them whose kid I am. After a good 13 years, I am back in England. Although it’s been that long – it feels like I never left.
But what is the white rose? Why does it exist? And why does it continue to exist even after Death has left its mark? Perhaps it’s a reminder of purity – that even after all those transient life experiences – there’s a part of us that remains forever untouched.
This is no candle flame burning softly and tenderly. This is a forest fire bent on annihilating everything and everyone that dares to resist it. I thought I would mourn the passing of things and people that I held so dearly in my heart for such a long time. But instead, I don’t. I accept that things must pass. That nothing lasts forever.
I release my grief. I let it die. I’ve faced the final ordeal. You’ve hurt me beyond the point of no return. So I returned to myself.