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Rose

by M.L. Fawcett

He sat in the cemetery, as old as the stones which surrounded him. He sat upon the tombstone, pulling out lilies, one by one, breaking up roses and sprinkling red petals on the ground.

"I give only to take away" he whispered. "Just like God".

Suddenly he stood up, placed his arms round his memory, and danced across the broken flowers, broken dreams - thus he mourned.

Then he saw me and demanded to know why I stared at him so. I 'told him I thought he was mad, and madness uplifted me.

'Ah" he said.' "They all said I was mad. But I was old - only old."

He returned to his tombstone, sitting heavily, and closed his eyes. I sat upon a grave beside me and closed my eyes too, trying to reach out and pierce his thoughts.

"Does it not seem odd to you that I am in this cemetery. After all, it is very, very old."

I replied no, for he was mad, and besides, he was very, very old.

"Ah" he said.

Then he began talking of the ancient days of his violent and bloody campaigns, mighty Warriors and the chiefs who led them. He spoke of great cities, of suffering, of the heroes and conquerors. He recalled Empires crumbling, wild primitives fighting for their gods, and sacrifices piled high, filling the sky with shrieks and cries.

Of all this he spoke, and in the telling the visions became his truth. I longed to know him, his present sadness which to him seemed eternal, even his youth - but his mind was not of this earth, and I was afraid of holding his body to its fragility.

"Under here is Rose. I realise it says Anna Keyer, but under here is Rose."

I told him it most probably was Anna Keyer under there, for mistakes are seldom made.

"I always knew her as Rose, so it is Rose under here. She was never Anna to me."

I said I understood now, but I didn't.

"You don't" he said.

"She was Rose and we lived in the hills. It was so beautiful there - always gentle, soft days to walk through. We lay in grass and read poetry, plays - she sang while ! danced - I gave her roses. She was Rose and she was beautiful and my whole existence."

I asked him how she died, and why did it say Anna Keyer when it should say Rose

"Ah" he said.

"She died so young. I never knew why.

I kept watch on the park where she lived, until one day she did not come - I knew she would not. She disappeared from my life and I was destroyed."

"I discovered by accident, she was buried here. I rushed to her, to talk to her and prove my unending love.

"She was always Rose to me. In the park I would say here comes Rose, walking, smiling. There is Rose sitting on a bench. Rose has looked at the sun and will soon leave. There is Rose going from the park. Rose will come tomorrow.

Only today is she Anna Keyer. Rose's real name is Anita. How strange to think of her as Anna. Why does it not say Rose. Even in death you are taken from me."

And I left him weeping for the stranger, the vision, the dream -

And I cursed that Anna Keyer, who would not be Rose, even in death.