Written August 3, 2020

There is no question that the rose is the most dangerous flower. Its petals, which make silk seem fibrous and coarse, spiral outward from the delicate center in a hypnotic pattern. The depth of their color makes one lost in admiration until the pressure becomes too much to bear. They reach out in desperation only to look down at their hand and see that familiar intense crimson spilling from their palm. The next time they see a rose, they are hesitant to look too closely for fear of reliving the trauma. But this is only half of the reason they do not reach out for the beautiful flower again. Subconsciously, they know that the rose is the flower most sympathetic to their own condition.

Roses were the reason Anna became a gardener. She found allowing herself to be immersed in the most basic elements of the planet rewarding, as if she were an ambassador between the so-called ‘civilized’ and natural worlds. When Anna nurtured plants, she felt a sense of purpose. She did not have a husband or children. Flowers were all she needed. Whenever she felt an occasional emptiness in her heart, she simply threw herself deeper into gardening.

The results of her labor were stunning. Anna’s world was tucked deep in the late 19th century Swedish countryside, northeast of Pausele and southwest of Vindelgransele, and every so often a lost soul on horseback took a wrong turn and found themselves before tall ivy-shrouded gates blown just slightly ajar. Hoping to find someone to tell them directions, they would proceed through the gates into another universe. Flowers were everywhere. It was as if a rainbow had shattered into millions of pieces and fallen to the ground. It did not, at first glance, appear to be the product of mortal hands. Daisies were next to clusters of forget-me-nots that were next to radiant sunflowers. And there were roses. So many roses. Roses of every color and shade bejeweled with flawless orbs of dew. Everything was dripping sunlight and perfume. 

The lost soul would wander down the path in a daze until they reached Anna’s cottage. They would knock on her door and she would open it, smiling. She would offer them directions and tea. Then they would leave smelling like chamomile, knowing that throughout the entire course of those events they were never really lost at all.

At the day’s end, Anna would sit on her porch admiring the sunset. There was a special time, as the golden orb sunk, when the light was complementary to the color of her flowers, and they would steadily adopt a soft neon glow until she could not discern her garden from the sky. The day resisted the navy hues of dusk rolling in like benevolent smoke until it submitted to night. Sometimes Anna would fall asleep there, enjoying the world’s metamorphosis. Swallows twisted and dipped in the air, flashes of their metallic feathers decorating the sky like sapphires. Frogs tucked themselves among the miniature forests made by the canopies of rosebush leaves and night blooming flowers. She would nod off to the sounds of the night.

It was like this that Anna fell asleep on the evening before a day that, at first glance, seemed like any other. When she opened them in the morning, her eyes were flooded with light. Butterflies shook the dew from their wings and began their quest for nectar. But there was a certain bright ominousness about this day. She could sense it like she could sense her flowers contracting a disease. Their petals were soft and had the luminescence of health, but something was stirring beneath the surface. So Anna did what she always did no matter her mood. She gardened. And she waited.

And he came. She had not seen him for many years—not since she was a child. He wandered down the path like all disoriented souls wanting directions. The irony was not lost on her. He was pushing a cart in front of him, and as he got closer she could see that he was peddling clocks. They were all shapes and sizes, with varnishes of all hues. Some were transparent, made of fine polished crystal. Others impossibly thin, their gears having to be stretched and pressed until they seemed like they were cut from paper. Still others encased in an intricately carved body with the detailed bears and deer nearly leaping off of the wood and coming to life.

As for the man, Anna could tell that he had known much suffering since she had last seen him. It showed in the deep crevices of his weatherbeaten face, his lively eyes appearing lost among the rubble of his skin. His gait was cautious and smooth, as if he were walking on ice and was slowly sliding his feet across the surface for fear of falling through. 

Perhaps his visit was preplanned, but she could not imagine why he would want to see her again. When they had known each other—in another time, when she was six and he was twenty—he never looked upon her unless it was with disdain. He was just below nobility. He had that sour pride that overtakes those with power and money and the will to wield it.

Soon enough, the squeaking wheels of his cart crunched to a stop on the patch of gravel before Anna, and they found themselves gazing into each other’s eyes. Their faces were expressionless. They were not looking at their exteriors, but into their underlying sincerity. Into the things that cannot be confessed with words. Anna knew somewhere deep within her that she and the man had always been connected. It was as if they were bound by an invisible thread that stretched between them wherever they were. There was always the tug at their side, reminding them that the day would come when they would meet again. And they had met again. In the middle of Anna’s garden. 

As if he was awakening from a deep trance, the man widened his bright eyes. “Clocks,” he said, almost to remind himself what he was really there for. “I make all of them by hand. Would you like to buy one?” Anna looked down at the cart of clocks, then back at the man. He followed her eyes. The roughness of his face was interrupted by a genial smile. “I’m sorry. I feel that I know you somehow. Have we met before?”

Anna was surprised by how little he had changed, and yet how very much. When they were both young, she was the one wearing dirty linen rags, her palms coarse from labor. But now the roles had switched. Now, she was draped in silks and floral patterns. His frail body was swathed in brown and gray fibrous material. Anna wondered if she should tell him who she was. She feared that perhaps he would revert back to his old ways. But what was the use? They were both wiser now. There was nothing he could do to her.

“I’m Anna.” She paused to watch the reaction bloom slowly on his face like a spring flower shaking itself of winter frosts. “I’m Anna Svensson, Nels.”

Nels looked devastated. Like he was about to burst into tears. “Anna,” his voice cracked. He stepped forward and took her hand. “Little Anna.” He lifted her hand to his forehead and sobbed. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Please forgive me, Anna,” he rasped between convulsions.

Anna placed her free hand on top of his head, which was covered in white wisps of hair. They stood like that for many minutes. Anna gently stroking Nels’s head, Nels whispering thirty-eight years worth of apologies into her right hand.

“It isn’t your fault, Nels. You were young.”

“I could have helped you. I could have been better to you and your family, Anna,” Nels said. “I was such a cruel, impudent young man.”

Anna knelt down and cupped the old man’s chin in her hands, looking at all of the features of his face to etch them into her memory. “I’m alright, Nels. My mother and I were alright in the end. After you dismissed her from your staff, we were able to start over. And here I am now.” Anna stood up, leading Nels up with her by his frail forearms. “I have a beautiful home. A beautiful life. More so than I ever imagined.”

Nels slowly swiveled his head in each direction, taking in Anna’s garden and truly enjoying it for the first time. “You did all of this?” he asked. He wiped the moist paths of his tears off his face with the back of his wrinkled hand.

Anna nodded. “My father was a gardener. You remember.”

The old man lowered his eyes to the lush carpet of grass beneath his feet. “Yes. He was a very gifted gardener.” He made eye contact with Anna. “You seem to have inherited his talent.”

Anna shook her head and fixed her gaze on her favorite rosebush. “Passion.” She looked back at Nels. “Passion is what makes a garden beautiful. Anyone can go through the motions. But too many people use measurements and plans. It takes heart to raise life out of rot and rocks.”

Nels placed a hand on Anna’s shoulder. “You succeeded in more ways than one.”

She smiled, taking his hand and squeezing it affectionately. “Would you like some tea?”

Nels frowned. “I don’t want to impose on you, Anna. I don’t deserve your compassion.”

Anna pursed her lips. “Please, Nels, I insist. You’ve had a tiring journey, I’m sure. You need to warm your bones.”

Nels paused for a moment, thinking about what to do. Then he gestured to his cart of clocks and said, “Pick one.”

Anna hesitated.

He took her wrist and guided her to the cart. “Please. I don’t have any money, so allow this to be my humble payment for your unwarranted hospitality. Take all of them, if you’d like.” His eyes flashed playfully as he continued, “If you often forget the time.”

Anna studied the variety of clocks, thinking that they were as beautiful and honest as her garden. She picked one up, cradling it carefully. “Not all of them.” She turned toward Nels and smiled. “Just this one.”

It was small and delicate, not very detailed. Its convex face, with Roman numeral digits painted on its surface, was surrounded by a thin ring of gold. The wooden casing was adorned with carved arches, and if one looked closely enough or ran their fingers against the ridges, they would see and feel small ringlets of ivy reliefs climbing in twisting patterns. Anna was drawn to it because it looked like a work of art. The little clock was a piece of Nels, just as Anna’s garden was a piece of her.

Nels touched the edge of the clock with his index finger. “Good choice.”

Without speaking, Anna began walking toward her cottage. Nels followed close behind, leaving his cart where it stood. They crossed the porch, passed the rocking chairs there, and pushed the creaking door open.

The small interior space of the house was maximized to its fullest potential. The front door opened into Anna’s living room, which spanned the width of the house and had two windows on either end. The beams of light that emanated from them were blurred at the edges by the particles of dust in the air. There was a stubby table surrounded by upholstered chairs, and a fireplace on the right wall.

Every flat surface seemed to have a potted plant. Anna stopped at a table under one of the living room windows that had a lush azalea atop it and a small watering can materialized in her hand. When Anna looked up, Nels was still at the door, watching her. “They’re like my children, these flowers,” she said, answering a question he did not verbalize.

Anna meandered through the living room, looking for a place to put her clock. She decided on the mantelpiece, then continued toward the kitchen and began making chamomile tea. The process was wordless. Nels was captivated by Anna’s hands as they poured and sprinkled and mixed and grabbed and poured again. 

When the tea was finished, the two of them went back outside and settled into the porch rocking chairs. By that time, the sky had sweetened to a warm orange and dragonflies beat a steady rhythm in the air, moving among Anna’s plants.

Something that never changed was Anna’s and Nels’s ability to sit with each other in silence. They did so now, watching the sky turn familiar colors as the rosebushes shivered in the evening breeze.

“There is something…” Nels began softly, but his voice faded away.

Anna turned to him. “What?”

“There is something that I cannot place my finger on. Something about life. And I don’t think I will ever be able to. I don’t think I will ever know what it is.”

Anna bit her bottom lip pensively. “Is that why you make clocks?”

Nels grinned briefly, and Anna did not know why. “I think that I make clocks to remind myself that people invented time.” He adjusted his position in his chair so that he could look at Anna. “I really am sorry about how I treated you all those years ago.” He sighed. “What was it your mother did to make me dismiss her? It’s strange. I carried this regret like a thorn in my heart for all this time, and I cannot for the life of me remember what put it there in the first place.”

Anna looked into the distance. “She dropped a vase.” When she blinked to shift her gaze back to Nels, there were tears in her eyes that reflected the young moon, just peeking out from behind the cobalt curtain. “She dropped a vase full of roses.”

Nels frowned. “That’s right,” he said pensively. Disappointment leached into his voice. That’s what happened. I had been yelling at her about a stain on the marble floor. But I wasn’t really angry about that. I wasn’t really angry about anything your mother did.”

Anna was weeping quietly now. “No?” she asked through her tears.

“No,” Nels continued solemnly. “I was angry because my father refused to buy me a stallion I liked.” He clutched Anna’s hand, his eyes wild with desperation. “I already had fifteen horses, Anna. Fifteen. But I had to have this one. Just one more, father, I said. That’s all. Just one more.”

“That night you forced us out of the mansion. We were on the street for a while. My father became very sick. He died not long after.”

“How did you get here?”

“I inherited it from an uncle I never knew I had. From my mother’s side.” Anna placed a hand on her cheek. “Come to think of it, he got his fortune from raising horses.”

Anna and Nels made eye contact. “What was his name?” Nels asked.

“Arvid Lustig.”

Nels laughed and clapped his hands until his palms were red and tears welled in his eyes. “My dear Anna, your uncle is the man I wanted to buy the horse from,” he wheezed.

Anna squinted and placed her fingers lightly on her lips. “How fascinating.”

“Yes, fascinating indeed,” Nels said as he rubbed his eyes. He stood up, his stature filled with renewed strength. “Darling Anna, I am free. With only a few words, you have freed me.”

“How have I freed you, Nels?”

“All my life since that day I have had guilt. I worried that I ruined the lives of three good people.” He leaned over and held Anna’s shoulders. “There is no worse prison than knowing you have extinguished something sacred. I realized as I watched you, so young and innocent, walk away with all of your worldly possessions strapped to your back—I realized that…” 

Nels looked all around him, rubbing his hands together, in search of something to make his point more clear. He picked up a rose that had fallen off its bush, perhaps torn away by the wind. Its petals had already begun to shrivel at the edges and fall apart from each other, unraveling at the center just as everything in life seemed to. “This is no more than a rose,” said Nels. “But what could be more than a rose?” he whispered.

Anna watched as Nels danced in her garden, as agile as a man half a century his junior. He was picking up the twigs and petals and dead leaves that littered the ground and flinging them in the air, laughing and crying all at once. Anna laughed and cried with him from her rocking chair thinking that whatever Nels said he could not place a finger on in life, he had. He was holding it in his hands that very moment. 

One sentence circulated like a current in a stream around Anna’s head. There is nothing in this world that is more than a rose, Nels. Nothing more than a rose.

More Than a Rose © Safira Schiowitz