#rose wiley

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Rose

Her miracle, she’s taken to calling him.

Cradling him in her arms, all she can think is this miracle was given to her by the land. She’s been blessed with a miracle, a miracle with tiny hands curling like leaves and kicks as mighty as thorns and soft rosebud cheeks and oh, her Rose, her little Rose, born from the earth, a beautiful gift, Rose.

William, her husband insists. Not Rose, William. A strong, dignified name fit for a strong, dignified young boy. 

Her husband, she’s come to acknowledge, is much unlike herself.

He speaks a different language than she does. One much rougher, more rigid, hardened by the world of men and order and duty and work. The gruffness is certainly not his fault, she knows. She sympathizes. They live in a cruel world that cuts the tongues of free spirits and forces harsh doctrine down their throats until that is all that they can utter. Her husband is not the first to fall victim to such brutality and will not be the last. 

Fortunately, though, in the years they’ve been together, she’s become quite familiar, fluent, with the inner workings of her lover. His deep, husky voice neither dissuades her nor muddles her translation.

Miracle, he’s saying, too. Blessing. 

Rose, also called William, dubbed Will for short, but otherwise known as their miracle, grows much like the unruly weeds in their backyard.

The all-too misunderstood plants are welcome in their home as far as she’s concerned, but she can stand to admit that perhaps her son is growing a bit too fast. It feels like no time at all has passed before her little gift has outgrown his wrappings, much too big to be swaddled anymore. Still though, albeit growing bigger by the day, he’s perfect. 

Her husband, on the other hand, expresses a tad more worry. About both the weeds and the development of their son.

“There’s something wrong with him,” he tells her one night in bed. What are we doing wrong, she knows it to mean, so she need not take offense. “He hasn’t said a word. He’s three years old. Other kids his age…It’s not normal.”

Normal. The word has always left a foul taste in her mouth. It’s times like these that her husband’s upbringing makes itself awfully, horribly apparent. She mourns for her husband over a life he’s not even aware was ground out decades prior. But she will not let her son succumb to the same fate, so she consoles him the only way she knows how, with soft, hushed reassurances that slide through the gaps in his hardened exterior. 

We are doing just fine. You worry too much. He’s perfect the way he is. 

However, her husband does not find himself easily dissuaded either. They are, after all, two twin flames. 

It is with the same tone as before that he says, “It’s time for him to go to school. He needs to learn.”

Rose is six years old now, and has since found his voice. 

“He’s already missed preschool, he’s behind.”

She’s always been fascinated by the way children’s minds bloom with such a sense of purity and wonder that makes itself scarce in the face of institutions.

“Are you even listening to me?” 

Of course she’s listening. She’ll always be pressing her ear up against his rumbling words, regardless of however nonsense they are. “There’s nothing worthwhile they could possibly teach him. He doesn’t need them, he’s a smart kid.”

“Well, he won’t be a kid forever, he’s growing up! We’re not always going to be there for him, you know.” The words bring her pause, for her husband speaks the phrase in two tongues. He’s growing up, the translation echoes and she discovers that her unspoken fears mirror the sentiment. We’re not always going to be there for him.With a deep exhale, the wind changes, she feels it, and warmth meets her in the middle. A twin flame. A hand laid over her own. And though there’s no voice to be heard, she understands all the same. I feel you.

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