Rosemary's Flowers

Mrs. Rosemary Bennet lived life like a ghost. Seeing without being seen. Speaking without being heard. Her fingers left no fingerprints.

Tick, tock, said the clock. Your time is up.

Smiling strangers came and went, leaving their fingerprints on her favourite teacups—the ones with the queen’s picture.

She had children once. Perhaps even grandchildren. Now, unfamiliar faces adorned her fireplace, calling out to her at night.

Long ago, she had a mother. A young woman cradling Rose like a ragdoll in yellowed pictures. She died when the house collapsed in 1956.

She used to have a father as well, a man with kisses hidden in the dimples of his cheeks. He died in the hospital, days after the house’s collapse.

Decades later, Rose lived in the neighbourhood her parents had loved. Her mother used to pick flowers every summer and craft a flower crown for her to wear. She’d been in the process of making such a crown when the house collapsed. Some days, her humming still haunted the kitchen.

Now the park was a parking lot. The people from the pictures were all dead. Those left alive entertained themselves with gossip. Currently, rumours spread through the streets like pollen.

Apparently, a stranger was paying people unannounced visits.

“A strange apparition she is,” the papers told Rose. “All the pictures of her are blurry.”

“Keep your doors locked,” the radio warned her.

“Keep your shutters closed,” the TV said.

What a ridiculous idea! This neighbourhood was the graveyard of crime. The worst thing that happened was the production of those shiny leaflets that attracted the snobbish city people. Big shots claiming they’d seen “it”.

Apparently, “it” was looking for someone.

Fairy tales! Made up by frolicking rich people. Still, even Rosemary could not help waving at a single magpie when she encountered one. Even she knew better than to open an umbrella indoors.

At the moment, she stared blankly at the flowers withering away on her kitchen counter.

If she died here, on these broken tiles, who would find her? Would it be the mailman, on his early morning excursions? Or her neighbour, concerned about a pungent smell? Would it be the dainty cat that snuck into her kitchen each morning, begging for fish?

(She preferred salmon).

Rosemary clung to the kitchen counter. Papa. She fixated on those warm, dimpled cheeks glowing in his portrait picture. Forty years since she last spoke to him. Mama. Dead before Rosemary completed grade school.

The kitchen darkened. Those flowers were the culprit. Daffodils, daisies and those damned buttercups. They were so hideously yellow. They crept into her thoughts. She was lucky: she still had her hearing and her sight. Her legs still carried her downstairs each morning.

Outside, the winds picked up and the parasol flapped like a goose spreading its wings. Heavens! She wound a pink scarf around her head, slipping out into the summer rain. Her clogs crackled on the gravel. With quivering hands, Rosemary managed to close the parasols.

Behind her, the lanterns shrieked. She was going to have a fever if she stayed outside in this weather. Before she reached the door, however, her eyes fixated on a batch of poppies. Just one or two then.

Seconds later, she crouched down, trying to select the brightest ones.

“Missss.” Rosemary whipped around, brandishing her scissors. Vast poppy fields stretched far beyond her backyard. There was a bench named Theodore, just behind a heaving fence.

A young woman was sitting on the bench, warming her hands between her knees.

The neighbours’ houses seemed further away than ever. All the curtains were closed. Rosemary’s garden was cast in ever-shifting shadows.

“Can you help me?” the young woman’s lips barely moved.

Rosemary lowered her scissors. “Are you cold, girl?”

The stranger wore a sunflower dress. Rain encircled her, never quite touching her skin.

“They told me Rosemary lives here.”

Could this girl be trusted?

“Well, you’re mistaken, I’m afraid.”

“So… Rosemary’s gone?”

“She moved ages ago.”

All colour drained from the girl’s cheeks. Even her dress and curly blonde hair seemed to pale. “I need to leave.” The girl glanced up at the clouds when she said this. “Give Rosemary this letter, if you ever see her.” She retrieved a piece of paper from the folds of her dress. It was crumpled, soaked, but somehow still whole.

Rosemary took it.

“Thank you.” The girl’s smile hovered in the dark. “For listening. Most people just scream.”

They stared at each other for a while. The girl glowed in the moonlight. Her eyes were cloudy, and a bit sad—Oh, where was her hospitality?!

“Come, dear, let me make you some soup—or some tea perhaps. I have strawberry, camomile… ”

“I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Let me get you a raincoat at least.”

“I won’t need that where I’m going.”

Rosemary did not listen. If the girl insisted on staying outside, she might as well protect herself.

When she returned, the girl was gone. Shaking her head, she fumbled for the letter she’d been given. She sat down in her favourite armchair, her eyes scanning the page.

My sweet Rose,

I’m sorry I died before ever getting the chance to know you. If this letter reaches you, I have finally passed on to the other side. I wish you knew how much I miss you.

With love,

Your mother, Cathy.

“Cathy,” Rosemary muttered. Was she going insane? “Cathy!” she stumbled out of her back door, her bare feet pierced by the gravel. The poppy field was deserted. The trees crackled like thunder. Rosemary sat down on Theodore, sobbing.

When her right hand touched the creaking bench, however, something tickled her skin. The tiniest petals. Rosemary lifted up a flower crown made of violets and buttercups.

She smiled. On the whisperings of the wind, she heard her mother’s voice.

—My sweet baby girl, mother waits for you—

Moonbeams caressed her cheeks. Her body stiffened on the bench. Inside, though, she felt warm.

The next day, she was found frozen in her yard, limbs petrified, her dress crumbled. The sun came up like always, but Rosemary smiled no more.