Original: Rose/The Place I've Lost
Out here in the country, the roses grew wild, their branches reaching out to touch whoever walked past. As if by some witchcraft, they bloomed all year round. People said that there was some magic about the place. There was a story about an old woman meeting an angel. It was a story no one told except in summary. Most likely because no one knew the story, but they liked to believe it was because it was too holy to tell. The righteous would know the tale without being told.
This was what she was coming home to. A place where beauty resided in the thorns as well as the delicate petals of the rosebush, where ghosts and Obeah scared the largest and oldest of children, where the sound of pianos and voices melded, belting out spirituals and would be heard in the high mountains and in the low valleys.
She had come back not because she had a broken heart that needed healing or because she’d come to pay respects. She’d come because this was home. It would always be.
End.
This was what she was coming home to. A place where beauty resided in the thorns as well as the delicate petals of the rosebush, where ghosts and Obeah scared the largest and oldest of children, where the sound of pianos and voices melded, belting out spirituals and would be heard in the high mountains and in the low valleys.
She had come back not because she had a broken heart that needed healing or because she’d come to pay respects. She’d come because this was home. It would always be.
End.