Preserving Roses
the tenacity of tenderness
Years ago, I visited the home of a friend in Columbus. It’s one of my favorite Mississippi towns, but since I no longer worked for the Office Supply Company and she was no longer my chosen companion, I hadn’t had cause to visit in a while. If you’ve read these stories before, you know I don’t give names, and when I do, they’re quite fake. A lady deserves her privacy.
Most of the women I’ve known, even if they weren’t artists or designers, had a very strong sense of visual style. Many had been, or would become, teachers. That may be part of my DNA.
In the corner of her ancient Columbus home, near a window, there was a small table with a glass globe resting on top, filled with glass marbles and polished river stones at the bottom, and the dried remains of three dozen roses loosely emanating from the top.
Years of genetic manipulation have produced roses of nearly infinite colors. Red, Crimson, Pink, Yellow, White, Lavender, Blue, Orange, Green, and more. Nearly every woman has a personal favorite that may not be evident. It’s something you can only learn by exploration.
Once a woman has shared a level of vulnerability with me and intimacy, I make it a point to discover their favorite rose. It doesn’t even have to be immodest intimacy; it can be an intimacy of mind, thought, creativity, and spirit that is often much stronger.
My friend had a preference for a particular shade of bloom that was often hard to get in Jackson, let alone Mississippi’s second-tier cities. Getting them required some level of foresight—and often a friendliness with the gay community to the point where they will do a fella like me a favor. Though dried, I recognized that these were flowers that came from me.
“I always thought you regretted our time together,” I said, looking at the preserved roses.
“Boys always do that. You shouldn’t assume that a woman leaves you because of something you did. Sometimes, we can and will do pretty cruel things to save you from ourselves.”
I pretended not to understand or agree, but I did. Sometimes, a woman can love you—but not love you. When that happens, they may feel honor-bound to break that connection. Though I shared many adventures with my friend—countless hours either painting her, or painting ON her, I simply wasn’t the one. She knew that. If I’m honest, I knew that.
Her home and her life in Columbus, Mississippi, were beautiful. My memories of her in Mississippi were sublime and wonderful, even if they ended sadly. All of our time together, every adventure, every moment, every touch, every glance, every secret told, every tear shed sat preserved in a glass globe in a corner of her ancient house.
Flowers preserved can preserve quite a lot.
