Rosebud

The bud is shut, and I'm not sure how to open it. I'm not supposed to, I think. The rosebud is smooth and green, half as large as I am, with a thin line where it should open. I tap on it, but nothing happens. A crisp smell, like the first scent of spring, permeates the area around the door. I run my fingernails along the seam, trying to find an easy opening. Nothing.

I hesitate. I should wait. I'll come back tomorrow to see if the bud is ready to be opened. Grasping the flower’s stem, I twirl, dance from leaf to leaf, and beckon to a passing butterfly. She swoops down, sapphire blue wings dusting the air, and lands for me. As I climb on, I take another look back at the bud.

“It's not meant to be opened yet,” she says, waving a black antenna at the rose. “It will open when it is time.”

“If I am not here, I will miss it,” I say. “Or perhaps it will never open. Some flowers do not.”

“He will open it when it is ready,” Butterfly responds, gently twirling an antenna around my hand. She takes off, wings fluttering, taking us skimming above the tender green grass and diving between branches. But I look back, keeping my gaze on the rose until it dips out of sight.

The next morning, I scale the stem leaf by leaf, avoiding its troublesome thorns, and reach the rosebud again. It's still sealed shut. It may never open. I may never see what's inside. I run my finger along the rosebud, then push harder against it, wondering what will happen. The sunlight grows hot against my neck. Where I have touched the bud, a dark bruise forms. I draw back, and the sun causes beads of perspiration to form on my skin. I will not touch the bud again.

When I return, I gasp in delight. The green sepals have broken open, revealing pink-tinged petals inside. The rose will soon be the color of a dusty sunset.

But a week passes, and the bud turns from emerald to ruby and still does not fully open. Rain falls, causing the frogs to sing and the creek to play its music faster. The rain decorates each leaf and bud with silver dewdrops. The buds of other flowers around the rose open, uncurling petals and filling the forest with vermilion and gold and indigo. And on one day when the air is burning with sunlight, I cannot wait any longer.

I select a sharp pebble and climb up. I linger for a moment before the rosebud, my gaze catching on the faded bruise that I had caused the week before. The rosebud has swelled to a brilliant fullness, bursting to be free, but still sealed.

Perhaps He will not open the rosebud. Perhaps this is as far as it will bloom.

I take a firm grip on the pebble, step forward, and use it to scratch the opening. It is not deep. But then the door peels back, turning a withered, bruised purple. It's ugly. I hesitate, but dig deeper. The lovely scent increases, perfuming the air, but the ugliness does too. I deepen the jagged cut in the rosebud, pushing harder and scraping faster. The pebble is scarlet from the rose juice, and my hands are, as well.

The sun retreats behind a cloud, leaving me alone with the bleeding rosebud. I step back, crying because of the ugliness, and drop the pebble, letting it plummet to the earth and bounce away. I run my hands over the bruised petals, trying to smooth them back together. They only fray further at the edges, rending and splitting deeper. I step back. I must escape.

Grasping the stem, I slide from leaf to leaf, my clothes and hair catching on thorns in my haste. I do not want to see the rose open anymore. It will be ruined now. Butterfly spoke the truth.

I rub my hands on my clothes, but the rose juice only dries, staining my skin and coloring my fingernails. I am ashamed that Butterfly may see, but my heart rends more from the condition of the rose. If only I had waited.

A leaf breaks free from a tree far above and pirouettes to the ground. The leaf's shadow casts over me for a moment, like blue wings dusting the air to rest beside me. “He will open it when it is time,” Butterfly had said.

“Forgive me,” I whisper. Not to Butterfly, but to Him. I am not bold enough to speak louder than a breath. “Forgive me. I have ruined your perfect rose.”

I take hold of the next leaf and prepare to continue my descent down the stem. But then the sun comes out, warming my face. The rose bud opens, graceful and silent, the scent washing down on me. I pause, then turn back and venture closer, climbing up and resting on a leaf right below the bloom. I turn my face upward, holding tightly to the stem, my tears still falling and landing with quiet taps against the leaves below.

Each petal is smooth and red, with tiny indents. They spread out, soaking up the sunlight. Several petals are withered and bruised, bleeding purple at the edges. Each petal would have been whole, its beauty and purity unmarred. But it is not whole, and it is marred. The rose continues opening. Petals unfurl.

It finishes uncurling, extending over its bruised outer petals. The damage is not gone, but it is covered by the inner petals. Then I notice a drop of rain, still preserved in a recess of a nearby leaf. I step forward, dip my hands in it, and let it rinse away the scarlet.

I wash the red juice from my hands, cup my hands around the bloom, and lean forward. The rose is more beautiful than I had imagined. The scent of spring washes over me.