The stolen breath of a rose

The+stolen+breath+of+a+rose

In the midst of a sea of green, eager, bantam feet surged towards an innocent rose.

Each foot wobbled steadily through the garden, attempting not to crush any budding leaves, and soon, the distance between the footsteps and the flower abruptly disappeared.

The child lowered herself to the flower’s level, sitting so closely that with one gust of wind, she’d fall upon its thorns. But the wide-eyed girl kept her balance and gracefully sat and stared at the flower’s stem, skating her fingers across its edges, calculating her attack.

After taking a moment to gawk at its vibrant colors and velvet touch, the naive child finally gave in to her overwhelming desire to claim the delicateness as her own and clawed at the flower’s stem, pulling it up from the ground.

Her intention was far from wicked. She was not evil nor corrupt. She simply wanted something of her own as beautiful as that rose.

Proud of her discovery, she showed off her treasure to the gardener.

Look! Look how pretty!

Her eyes gleamed; they were incandescent in the July sun. Her face glowed, smiling from ear to ear, clutching the finite rose like an archeologist who came across a lost bone.

The gardener’s expression lifted in response to the sound of the child’s avid voice, but it quickly fell flat as he turned around. His beloved work had been torn from the ground. Cut off. Killed.

His face sat somber, realizing the flower’s breath had been stolen.

I’ve warned you not to pick the flowers.

Well, why not? They’re pretty.

It’s selfish.

The young girl was willing to share her discoveries, so she wondered how she could ever be pinned as selfish. Willingly, she handed the agitated gardener his flower, attempting to prove her honest selflessness.

He bitterly snatched the rose from her delicate fingertips, and she ran off, guiding herself away from the unwelcoming land.

Little did she know, her innocent desire for the rose’s beauty allowed for it to bask in the sun, but as soon as her hands reached for its stem, taking control of its grace, it began to wither.”

Little did she know, the thorns of the rose left a jagged mark on her pure hands as they were snatched away, digging deep into her skin, as if it was the rose’s way of telling her “remember me.”

Little did she know, the gardener sat solemnly in his personal jungle, quietly mourning the rose’s death. Its breath, stolen. Its petals, weeping.

Its life, limited.

Little did she know, her innocent desire for the rose’s beauty allowed for it to bask in the sun, but as soon as her hands reached for its stem, taking control of its grace, it began to wither.

Because a flower cannot live a life in possession.

Thus the gardener always tells the children,

If you love something, let it be.

The children hear him but never listen.