2011 Sobriety Rocks Runner Up – Writing
"The Rose"
by Sarah Ripperda
The frozen winter wind tore through my leather jacket and into my already chilled skin. I pulled my hood down further on my head, in the vain hope for warmth as I walked quickly down the path. All around me others walked in the park, some alone, but the majority in couples or groups, after all it was a special day, and people had to celebrate. But none of them had as determined of a step as mine.
My clothes were all dark and so was my mood, both of which made me obviously out of place among all the brightly-clad happy people. How could they be so happy? I asked myself as I passed a couple kissing in the cold. I had learned the hard way that wearing your heart on your sleeve only got you hurt.
The icy and snowy ground made a firm crunch as it gave way beneath my boots, jarring my mind back to my task, and I moved on. I left the park and went downtown where bright reds and pinks graced stores with windows full of oversized hearts and miniature little cupids with their arrows of heartbreak, full of venom, and aimed at the unsuspecting innocent people. I had learned that those arrows carried with them a bite that was everlasting and unwavering.
As I passed one of the shops I saw a man down on one knee, with a little ring of glimmering gold in his hand, facing a woman. She had tears in her eyes, happy tears. It took me a moment to realize that he was proposing to her. They were lucky and I wished them every happiness possible, for love without all the heartbreak that I had felt. Unfortunately, the happy scene only made my mood worse. That could have been me, it should have been me, but no, it could never be.
I continued walking until the downtown district thinned out into sports complexes followed by sprawling neighborhoods, their usually green lawns now dead and buried deep under the frigid snow. A block ahead of me, just off the street corner, was that fateful stoplight pole and hockey arena, my destination. The last block was torture, as I had known it would be. My walk slowed as I moved closer toward the scene of all my sorrow. It seemed to take me a lifetime to cross that single block but finally I did, even though I knew my victory would not taste sweet. Then I crossed the street, It should be named the avenue of heartbreak, I thought bitterly, but in truth it was Rose Street, At least it was fitting, I thought, a beauty that kills.
The stoplight pole stood in front of me now. In the dimming light I could still make out the dents in the chrome colored steel and the flecks of candy apple red car paint embedded forever in it. It was hard to believe that it had already been a year. One year exactly to the date and the time. I had followed the same fateful path that he had walked that day on his way to hockey practice, only I was okay, nothing had happened to me. Unfortunately the same could not be said of him.
I bent down and reached inside my jacket. Today was a special day, a sad day, I had to celebrate it in some way, no matter how small. A single red rose, bright as blood with thorns like daggers, was warm in my hand as I pulled it out from the inside of my jacket. Its own musky floral scent filled the frigid air and enveloped my nose as I hesitated, rooted to the spot by invisible threads for a moment in a point of no return. Shaking off my hesitant thoughts, I gently touched the scarred pole and let go of all the painful memories that had been swarming in my head the entire time I had been walking, and for the past year. When they were all finally gone, I let out a breath of relief for the freedom from the pain. Then I let go of the rose and watched it fall freely through the frozen air before it landed upon the frigid ground next to the pole, blood red upon the soft, snowy surface. A few tears threatened to overflow the seas of my eyes and I let them fall. "Happy Valentine's day, my love," I said, my voice only a whisper in the howl of winter's wind," I'll never forget you."
I stayed there for a moment but then I knew that I had to go, I had to live in the present, not the past, he would have wanted that, or at least that's what I told myself every day, I could only hope it was true. I turned around and headed home the same way he would have walked home after hockey practice if only that driver, that heartbreaking murderous man, had decided not to drink and the accident had never happened.
"I'll never forget you." I repeated once more, looking back, surprised at the amount of conviction in my own voice. I turned and walked on towards the sunset in the horizon, towards home, and towards hope. Behind me I left memories of sorrow that I had never wanted, my best friend for all time, my true love everlasting, and a rose that simply stood there like a drop of blood in a snow storm.