An old man's rose

An old man’s rose

Mr. Lewis was a cynical man, but he always had a bit of hope for something better. Perhaps that’s what kept him in that old abandoned house, rummaging through antiquities and archaic treasures. Sunlight leaked through cracks in the walls, illuminating only the emptiest corners of each room. And yet the surrealism that layered the thick air around him could not penetrate Mr. Lewis’s determination. He had seen this house before, in his imagination. His eyes wandered diligently, searching for the one priceless item that could maybe restore a bit of warmth to his lonely old heart. Not one of the four rooms went unexamined, each a vital part in this mansion of sentimental worth. But the fourth and final room was different. It was where the lady of the house had spent her nights. The bedroom was bare and simple, the best kind according to Mr. Lewis. It was so destitute that it could afford no decoration for its pale walls, with only the exception of several black and white pictures: a young graceful woman whose radiance enveloped the stern faces of the others, and a sophisticated man surrounded by a crowd of eager young minds. Mr. Lewis stared intently into the depths of these photos, greeting them silently as he did old acquaintances, and recognizing the love story that lay beneath the fading surface. In the dirty glass frames that preserved their timeless tale, Mr. Lewis caught the reflection of what he was looking for: a small paperback book lying upon the marred mattress of the bed. He squinted his ancient eyes through the glasses that defined so much of his face now, and picked up the book he was never able to finish. It was a gift, hastily given away to the lady that had laid her head upon the very bed where the book had lain. Mr. Lewis never thought of obtaining another copy of it for himself to read, even though at the time he found the story to be most delightful. He never finished it because he felt as if the ambiguity of the end of the story represented that of his own. Mr. Lewis was indeed a foolish man who had the utmost faith in the value of such a worthless idea. But it was time, he supposed, to finally uncover the mysteries that had lingered in the back of his head for what seemed like two eternities. And so, he elegantly flipped to the exact page where he had left off 43 years ago, and proceeded to read the small lines of text that seemed to have shrunk from the image his memory had so well preserved.

Karl had never seen such marvelous feet. They glided across the room as if never actually touching the floor, but yet still able to grace each dirty wooden plank as they passed. The bright lights that spanned across the entire ceiling seemed to contradict the obvious age of the dance studio, but the brightness complemented her passion. With each single photon of light that her skin deflected, a new aspect of her beauty was revealed. She was tall and thin, her body able to bend and move to not only the broken music that played from the outdated tape recorder, but also to a gentle force beyond the reach of the five senses. Although her dance quickly captured Karl in a trance, her beauty was not obvious; it was hidden under the layers of her physical movements through which her true emotional capacity was expressed. And Karl loved her for that. He loved her not for the wrinkled image reflected in the dusty old mirrors, but for her ability to show who she truly was during the short ten minutes that she graced the dance floor. He sat with his back to that deceiving line of mirrors, relishing every single step of her feet.

Karl's hands grasped a small paperback book that he planned to give to her at the end of their meeting that day. As he had handed the gift to her on their walk home, she neither looked happy nor thankful. She only stared blankly at the cover, looking over the text she could barely read, and knowing that it was a sign of his departure the next day. The rain came down harder as they walked, but even as the splashes of bypassing cars and bicycles stained the thin pale legs of the girl, the dirty mud and water did nothing to taint the beautiful image that Karl saw her in. A taxi that Karl had waved down waited patiently as the two young lovers said their silent goodbyes. Not knowing what to do or what to say, they just stood there in the rain as people pushed past them, and carefully examined each other’s lovely wet faces.

It wasn't his work, nor physical labor that had aged Karl Lewis so rapidly; it was love that had withered away his once handsome face and rigid stature. It was almost as if the wrinkles dividing his skin and heart were prints left by the women who had so eagerly taken his love, but who had given none in return. Perhaps that was why Mr. Lewis was constantly shivering; the source of heat for the body and for life itself was now empty, buried deep within a mass of tissue and bone that meant nothing without love. But he was an old man anyhow, soon to meet his end in a road that was far longer than any road should be. Mr. Lewis understood his tragedy, but instead of hiding from the path he had led, Karl embraced the steps he had taken and acknowledged the love he had given to each of the women that once in a while passed through his ancient memory.

Her grave was adorned with photos and flowers and letters of colors that were now undetectable by the fading brown eyes of Mr. Lewis. As he stood over her grave remaining as still as he had ever been, his face began to fill with a complexity of emotion unspeakable in any language, an expression that could only be understood by the heart of another human being. She was indeed loved by many, while he was indeed loved by few. Karl laid his single rose down and slowly turned away from her for the last time. To many who had walked past her grave, Karl's rose went unnoticed among the masses of flowers and gifts, but to the few who saw with their hearts rather than their eyes, Karl's rose possessed a power and brightness that all the other flowers lacked.