The Last Rose Of Summer

Some people have called this a rather morbid story, but when I wrote it I, didn't feel that way. It speaks of one of life's lessons, and is a warning to women not to submerge themselves in others, to the detriment of their own personalities.


The breeze blew the wind chime about gently, causing the freely swinging center piece to strike the different lengths of pipe. This sent forth a beautiful melodious sound that was carried with the breeze beyond the end of the driveway, over the treetops and past the open window of the little blue house that was nestled in among the rose bushes that had gone wild with neglect.

As the gentle sound drifted past the lace curtains, now limp and yellow with age, a pair of eyes fluttered and opened. They were a startling blue, in contrast with the paleness of the surrounding face that lay upon the embroidered pillow. A pillow that had once been starched and ironed crisp was now limp and yellowed like the curtains.

The woman's hair had once been a shining shoulder-length mane of strawberry blond curls. Once the envy of her friends, it now lay gray and unkempt, fanned out around her head.

When had the spring turned into summer?

She didn't have the answer to that question. Each day dissolved into the next, and now summer was drawing to a close. She had lost him in the spring. She sadly recalled how it had been his favorite time of year, how he dearly loved to plant and watch everything grow and blossom.

But the true love of his life had been his roses. After he retired, they had become his children, his love, his all-consuming passion. He spent hours tending to them - weeding, pruning and fertilizing them. His rose garden quickly became the talk of the town.

People stopped to chat or have tea. They sat in the garden, drinking in the floral aroma. They left sated and dazed, almost as though they were drunk on the heavy perfume of his beloved roses.

And there she always was, like a hummingbird flitting here and there, not daring to land. Always the perfect hostess, making sure there was enough tea, scones and white linen napkins. She recalled how her mother had always insisted on her using her best China that was so clean that it sparkled in the sunshine.

For, as the garden was his passion, the house was hers.

Her mother and grandmother had taught her well, maybe too well, she thought. She rose every day at dawn and cooked and cleaned all day until she fell into bed that evening, totally exhausted. She had her life regimented to a daily routine and beware anyone, man or creature, who dare disturb it!

Maybe, if they had been blessed with a child early in their marriage, things would have been different. A child would have forged a common bond between her and her husband that would have been constantly shared and experienced. Without something to share, they became totally absorbed in their own little world, oblivious to the other person's needs and wants.

Her mother and grandmother had instilled in her how to be a good mistress of her home and an asset to her husband. She married the son of a prominent family that already had an established business that had been passed down to him and a younger brother upon the death of their father. Her husband took pride in his work, putting in many long hours each day.

After a while, he took for granted coming home each evening to that shiny clean house as she lovingly prepared dinner. Completely absorbed in his own thoughts, he never engaged her in conversation. He talked all day at his place of business and wanted a little peace and quiet. It never occurred to him that she was alone all day and never spoke to a soul.

When visitors came for dinner, they were invariably his friends and associates. She had never cultivated any friendships with her neighbors. She kept her days full of washing, ironing, cooking and cleaning. When complimented on her home and dinner, she stated that she considered it was her duty to provide her husband with a comfortable place to come home to. She left the entertaining to her husband.

So, day after day it was the same. She never asked for help in the house and he never asked for company in the garden. They both spent their time absorbed in what they were doing, oblivious of the other, except for mealtime. Once or twice, he complimented her on her cooking, but she only responded with a distracted thank-you.

On that fateful day, she went to the door to call him for lunch.

There was no answer, so she stepped out into the garden.

There he lay on the grass amid the rose bushes as though he had fallen asleep. He had a calm, serene look on his face. There was no hint of pain. She sat with him in the garden for almost two hours before the sound of the postman coming down the lane roused her from her stupor sufficiently to ask him to summon help.

And for days, she cleaned and cooked for the procession of people that filed in and out of her home. His family, his friends and his associates. Her brother-in-law told her not to worry, that he would see that she was well provided for. And then they were gone.

Then there were no more afternoon teas, so she stopped baking. She hated cooking meals only for one, so she stopped cooking. There was no one to appreciate her beautiful spotless home, so she stopped cleaning. This didn't happen overnight, of course, but was a slow process that took ten years. In that time, the neighborhood changed and grew. The new next door neighbors weren't even sure if anybody lived in the little blue house. In the four weeks since they had moved in, they had not seen a living soul come or go from there.

It was as though she had made herself invisible to those around her. Now, realizing her mistake, it was too late.

Her eyelids fluttered open once more as the sweet sounds of the chimes came softly to her, carried one more time on the sultry afternoon breeze, and with it the fragrance of the last rose of summer.

- Dee Pacheco 
Geneva, Ohio, U.S.A.