Faded Roses

Faded Roses

On a Sunday evening in early summer, I sat on my bed, musing over a bouquet of roses. I ought to have been outside enjoying the fresh air and the garden, but I preferred to back in my depression rather than in the soft twilight. I could watch the video of my recital only so many times before I realized that I could not call back that performance high anymore. Perhaps a more piteous sight than a listless girl, however, were my precious roses. Just Friday night, they had been fresh and youthful, their cheerful faces leaning out of the vase to smile at the whole room, and now, only two days later, they looked tired and sad with their withered petals and faded color. So I pictured them as they had been at my performance and mulled over the anticlimax of an other dance recital gone by.

In the great scheme of dance performances, this one had not been any spectacular show. For the second year, I had stepped out on my own to teach dance to young homeschoolers, and the culmination of the classes was a small family recital. So as dance recitals go, perhaps it was not much to warrant such a let-down afterwards, but this recital was mine, and it was the highlight of my year. I had planned and worked so long to perfect my little recital: choreographed the dances, sewn the costumes, written the program, rented the auditorium, and set the final touches. That night was glorious in its simple way. I loved my young dancers, and I shivered with excitement when I reminded them to whisper and hurried them onto the stage; glowed with pride as I watched them perform each arabesque or shuffle step; sighed with satisfaction when their joyful faces thanked me as they danced to the bouncy tap or soothing ballet music. I felt loved by my students, and I treasured their admiring gazes when I performed my own dance on dance on pointe for them. The evening passes in a whirl of sequins and music, applause and thanks. I didn’t think about it being over; I didn’t think about the next day. I wanted only to feel the emotions of that performance.

At the end of the show, a mother came onto the stage and handed me a gorgeous bouquet of fifty light pink rose buds from my students. Each flower seemed to have a saucy smile and an invincible beauty with its firm, slender stem and its sleek, velvety petals. I beamed and thanked my dancers for their generous gift. The aura of the roses enveloped me, and I felt as though we possessed the same sparkling vigor and vitality as I stepped off stage.

The next morning I awoke with a sinking feeling in my chest. The realization soaked into me that the night to which I’d looked forward all year was suddenly over. All the excitement of the performance seemed to have passes in a heartbeat. It hadn’t been long enough; I hadn’t savored the moments; I hadn’t fully appreciated the last time I ever saw my students dance those routines. So with the climax behind me, I spent the day trying to fill the emptiness I felt. I watched the video of the dance recital over and over, exclaiming again and again, “Oh, weren’t they great?” as though I were an old lady with nothing to do but recount stories of the good old days. At first it worked to some extent; the memory was fresh in my mind, and I could recall a bit of the passion. As the day dragged on, however, my emotions were flat, and all I could feel was the let-down.

While I watched and rewound my recital tape countless times, the roses began to lose their vigor up in my room. I never dreamed they’d wilt so soon. I had had them only a day. Yet they seemed to be caught up with me in my mood, and the buds were no longer cheery. They looked tired and limp as they drooped over the side of the vase. Last night’s performance had been their moment of glory, too, and now they were disappointed to sit idly on a shelf. The sight of my beloved bouquet only saddened me as another testament to my recital being over. I still felt listless and empty on Sunday when my family went to church, and my thoughts kept wandering back to the events of Friday night. I still didn’t want to let go of the excitement and magic of the performance as I sat in my pew. Then the pastor read the Old Testament Lesson from Isaiah Chapter 40: “All flesh is grass, and all the goodliness thereof is as the flower of the field: The grass withered, the flower fadeth: because the spirit of the Lord bloweth upon it: surely the people is grass. The grass withered, the flower fadeth; but the word of our God shall stand for ever.” Perhaps I should have been comforted by the assurance that God was unchanging and abiding. Nevertheless, those were not at all the words I wanted to hear. Now, besides the immediate let-down of a single performance, I realized that someday I would have a last recital. I knew that dance would inevitably come to an end altogether in my life.

I pictured my poor roses at home in my bedroom, becoming more limp and withered every hour. I didn’t want to fade like the flower of the field, like my pink recital roses. I didn’t want to let the memories of my own young dancers slip away or let my students forget me when I left for college. I couldn’t leave behind dance and the invincible beauty that accompanied it, letting my breasts sag and letting veins mar the contour of my legs. Did the people we were and the excitement we’d felt on that precious evening have to wither with the flowers? I told myself that I would be strong and never let dance go. I would continue dance in college, and maybe I could own a studio someday. Years from now, perhaps I could return home and see my former students. Surely, time wouldn’t wither their fond memories of the lessons, the recitals, and joy of dance we had shared, and it wouldn’t all have to fade away.

Yet, true to the words of Isaiah, my roses continued to fade on that Sunday evening, while I pondered this in my bedroom. Their saucy smiles had waned, and their petals were dried and wrinkled. They looked exhausted, although their stems struggled bravely to stay erect a moment longer. Happy young roses have inspired many love lyrics, but there were no poetic words to describe throwing out a vase of stagnant water and shriveled flowers. I eventually stood up from my bed and carried the dry bouquet a ways from the house, where I poured my roses into the weeds and the dust.