“Come Hither To The Rose”

by Elena Armstrong

     The pink rose wobbles in the wind; a slow wiggle to show of its beauty. The tiniest bugs trek through its terrain; it is the nectar of nirvana that they seek. The pink of the rose beckons you to come closer, an assertive rouge in a quiet sea of green, demanding your presence, shouting, look at me! As you approach the vine of its house, you notice her two younger siblings sleeping in their buds, still enfolded in the wombs of their stems. One is further along in the gestation period than the other, its leaves slightly curled forward in a protective stance, like a Venus fly trap. The association makes it looks as though it is ready to lash out and attack anyone who disturbs its metamorphosis, surprising the attacker with a hidden rack of thorns.



     The biggest bloom is in its fullest prime, looking the way it would be emulated if were waxed or imitated in plastic charm. I suddenly want to preserve its beauty by encasing it in some way, flash heating it, dunking it in wax or freezing it so it remains pristine forever. I remember just a month ago, when the tulips were out, saying the exact same thing. I intended to get wax to preserve them but never did; the regret I felt at that forgotten as I got too busy with indoor life, forgotten until at least now. I still hadn't gotten the wax, and here was the rose at the apex of its beauty. What happens in life to usurp the priorities that seem so precious when you realize that you did not take the time to capitalize and nurture them?

     The rose petals seem delicate but tough to my fingers. It is the type of sensation like pudding in my mouth: soft to my tongue, yet the delicious taste lingers long after it slips down my throat. I have eaten rose petals before. I had read the book "Like Water For Chocolate" and heard of the idea first from that. It was about a Mexican woman whose every food she cooked was an aphrodisiac; it was her sorceress' elixir. One of the foods she used was rose petals; I remember something in the books about her crying into the petals as she cooked them, which only added to the potency of her meal.



     Even though I have eaten rose petals before, and thought them delicious, I don't want to eat the leaves of this one, and least not yet. I want the rose to enjoy its prime, while it still has its full regal beauty. The rose, when eaten, has a sweet taste to it. I've head it has tons of Vitamin C; I read it in one of those survival manuals that tell you what plants are edible, and which ones are lethal. The rose is one of the plants that enhance survival.

     The big bloom on the stem has a soft smell, like wine in a bottle that has been open for a long time. Underneath the bloom resides its stem and the leaves that stretch from it; their scent full of the soil that is the foundation of its luscious crown. Some life form has begun to make a meal of the green leaves, munching through the center like the stereotypical bookworm consuming a novel. It's good to have an olfactory experience with the other parts of the flower. Because if you keep your nose for any length of time in the flower's center, you will be hypnotized by it, ready to do its bidding if it would issue a command. You sit there, smelling it, thinking, oh, this flower is so soft and gentle. It isn't even attracting the bees anymore, its scent is so sublime.

     But that is where it traps you, seduces you, becomes the aphrodisiac that it is reputed to be, because slowly weaves its magic. As you consume its scent, thinking that with this subtlety you aren't affected, with each scent you take, you are slowly being taken under, forgetting that anything exists except what is bring consumed by your breath. The rose whispers, don't worry, I'm not like my cousin, the poppy. I'm a good girl, or boy, whichever you prefer. Yet as you forget all else but its innocence, you are hooked. The stem by its bloom is so soft, without thorns, that it makes you want to hold on all that much longer, the heck with anything else.

     There it is, just a rose, sitting there, just another blossom, another flower, another plant, another life form among many. But it stands up and makes you want to notice. It has the power to make you feel guilty if you don't: haven't you heard the expression, take time to smell the roses? Someone must have been entranced by a rose, and realized that his life was whizzing by, full of nonsense. He felt guilty, and realized the rose was that important that he had to stop and pay attention to it. He didn't say. stop and smell the goldenrod. The rose doesn't have all that much time to live, doesn't travel much or do anything that modern human society seems to consider to be important. It doesn't do what society would say is necessary to have a full life. Yet when you notice it, being full of life is exactly what the rose is all about.