THAT RED ROSE

Then a mother of just twenty eight - a son who was only five . . .

A mother told she had cancer - a little boy with fear in his eyes . . .

A father already deceased - I dread to think at his thoughts . . .

As you can image - we were both a little more than fraught . . . 

The cancer was no “biggie” - a demon that was with soon dealt . . .

With the help of lovely doctors - we soon had it under our belts . . .

Everything thing dealt with - the widow mother soon set home . . .

To a place of comfort - safety - to everything she had known . . .

With her last good-byes to family - all doors where then locked . . .

A fridge of ready to eat food for my son - was itself well stocked . . .

The mother dragged herself off - for some well-earned sleep . . .

Leaving a son with all of his toys in a very well-organized heap . . . 

On stirring for a trip to the bathroom - what a sight hit my eyes . . .

Every box upturned - with his Lego my son was building to the skies . . .

After feeding him on beans and toast - I headed off back to my bed . . .

With the thought of having to tidy up all that mess - filling me with dread . . .

I awoke up in the morning - just lying there - thinking how lucky I had been . . .

Losing a partner and a father to such a small child was bad enough - so mean . . . 

When in to my bedroom came - my so little son - with a tray held in his hands . . .

At what point had my little son - had all of this mastery cleverly planned . . . ?

2 boiled eggs - I swear perfectly made - toast - in a sherry glass - a red rose . . .

From a little boy - who has in the past help me cook - but never on his own . . .

I complemented him on his cooking skills - without thinking how it was done . . .

To that red rose - I can never ever be sure - can I now my lovely so little son . . .

He watched while he sat at the side of my bed - until the plate was clear . . .

A moment cherished - to each other a reminder how to each we were dear . . .

On getting up to return the tray - a sight also never forgotten - there was no mess . . .

Everything had been tidied up - all toy boxed re-arranged - there is a heaven - “bless” . . .

Each and every dish in the sink - all washed - all pots and plates - all within their racks . . .

Who could have done all this - surely for such a little boy - this was to greater a task . . .

My suspicions’ aroused even - who had entered what I thought was our secure abode . . . ?

Remembering that within our home - it was impossible - there just was no such red rose . . .

The thought of some weird non-existing soul - within my four walls - was bad enough . . .

I was getting over - ruled by - from surviving from cancer - was just all to me to tough . . .

I never asked my so little son - just where that red rose came from - in fear he was left . . .

With a feeling he had done something so wrong - leaving a house so young - in his deft . . .

We are 30 years on - and believe me I still ask - even my son now - about that red rose . . .

“But” with everything now forgotten - and still to this day - I swear nobody knows . . .

I swear with all the elders of that time - that one of them has played me - I so swear . . .

It a memory that beguiles me - so here’s to the so little boy who was so beyond his years . . .

Thank you son - you gave me a memory that passed all others - just to show me you cared . . .

Indiana Shaw . . . : )  

At this time this happened I lived in a first floor terrace house flat - no one on the street had gardens - not only were the doors locked - but bolted from the inside - the keys safely in my bed - so if one of my family had lied - it was such a beautiful lie - but you know my son has never stopped since bringing me flowers - as I could write in so many stories - never paid for as a child - we laughed about it so much - they came from sidewalks - gardens and parks all (pinched) - as a teenager I said never from a graveyard please - ha ha ha - I love you son with all my heart - I really really do - he is just so flippin’ lovely I thought I would share this with you . . . : )