He picked many bright red roses that day. Ones with little drops of water, ones with almost pink petals, ones with sharp thorns. But of all the roses he could not find the perfect one.
He brought them home and looked them over one by one. The first was bright red with little drops of water on the beautiful petals.
The second was a light pink with a short stalk but large petals.
The third a neutral red with thorns that tickled the finger tips.
The fourth was red with sharp thorns and little drops of water turned blood red by the petals.
The fifth was pink with a long slender stalk, but under the leafs were sharp thorns.
The last was a bright red with big leafs and rather small petals. It held no thorns and looked like a misfit amongst the other flowers. He that found the one.
Picking up the last rose he carried it out of house and to the car. He set it on the passenger seat and smiled.
He drove past fields and farm houses, through the small town and it's shops. Then he pulled into the small cemetery at the end of the road.
He walked along the path holding the rose. Past many gravestones, small ones, tall ones, short and stubby, wide and high, and ones that were so old you couldn't read the writing. Finally he came to a small new looking stone with the edges rounded. It was only a foot or two high and slightly skinny.
He smiled and placed the rose next to a picture frame that lay against the stone. It held a young woman with brown hair and a wide smile. Her two front teeth were mismatched, one longer than the other.
