Thorny Appreciation

I was crying. I had a reason to. I was eight years old at that time, of course I would cry. I was hurt because of the thorns. Not because they were prickly but because someone stole my rose and left me thorns. Thorns that reminded me of my anger. I didn’t want to go back to being bad and infuriated.

     It all started to turn upside down when my mum committed suicide. I haven’t got a dad; I guess that’s what drove her mad. I was only three years old yet I still have sharp and shocking images in my head. Once, when I was six years old, I asked my aunty about my dad and what happened to him. She was on the verge of tears and she just replied, ‘he died’.

      I got teased at school and became a loner until year two. That was when I had my roses. My garden, my paradise, my rose scented heaven and my only living thing ‘best friend’.

      But before I was in my rose paradise, I learnt to stand on my own two feet. Except I became much more over confident. I became worse. I became a bully. Because of all the hatred, anger and grievance. Because of what my parents were and who they were. Because they left me by choice. Because they both committed suicide. My aunty left the conversation hanging when I asked her about my dad; so I just had to find out more. Then I found out my dad killed himself. Quite literally. My dad was the one who destroyed us all. He made my mum go mad.

      One day I was walking home from school the long way. Normally I would take the quickest route home but this time I went the longer way because of the police cars on the road that connected to mine. After all no one except my aunty was waiting for me.

      I came across a flower shop with lovely aroma. I saw red roses and white roses. Red roses reminded me of blood and love. White roses remind me of angels. I thought of my mum as a fallen angel. She was the white rose.

      I bought seeds and planted them. From then on I loved them. I held back the tears. I calmed myself down. They can grow, it’ll just take time. Like watching babies grow up but faster.

      Now that I’m thirty years old I know the mistakes I’ll never make. I would never do that to my children even if it kills me inside to know that someone I love isn’t there. My children will know the story of the rose and the thorn. The rose represents my mum, the fallen angel and the thorn represents my dad and my bad memories.

      I realised that roses are a bit like life. They are up and down. They spark and fuse. They grow and die. They are bright in colour when pampered and dull in colour when they’re not. But most importantly they show what I gave to everyone – a Thorny Appreciation. 

Copyright © 2010 Nya Ahmed