The Scent of Roses
Raphael was wandering through the grounds of Erik and Christine's home, well, his home, as well. Shadow, the grey cat that Erik had adopted years ago, crept silently after him, ever watchful, curious as to what this boy was up to.
Rafe knew Shadow was there, so he spoke to himself, and the cat, as he stopped to inspect each rose bush for beetles and occasionally paused to look up at the beautiful azure sky above and the swallows that had returned for spring.
"I am composing, Shadow. You know what that means, don't you. Monsieur Erik is a composer. And a musician. I suppose that Monsieur Erik can do anything. He is a genius, Shadow. But you already know that, or you would not have stayed with him. Madame Christine knows it, too. She is another kind of genius. A singing one."
He settled himself on a garden bench and patted the seat beside him so that Shadow, unable to resist an invitation to be fussed over, leapt up beside him and allowed for petting and chin scratching, as he listened to the boy. "We live in a house that is filled with music. Have you heard me play? No? Well, you should come and listen some time. Monsieur Erik and Madame Christine have both been giving me lessons. I sing, too, you know. I don't know if cats are allowed at church, but I sing in the choir on Sundays. Madame Christine is always there, when she is not at work. When she is, Erik will walk with me to town and wait outside. Only on special occasions, or if Madame Christine is at home and she makes him, does he ever go inside. He says he can hear me from the bench in the cemetery. He does have very good hearing, so I suppose he can."
As they sat on the bench, Rafe took a small note pad and a pencil from his jacket pocket and began to scribble in it. "Can you smell the roses, Shadow?" the cat purred, hoping for more attention, but Rafe's mind was elsewhere. "Before we moved here I knew that smell, but not from a garden like this. No, it was from when I lived with those gypsies…" he whispered this, "there was a girl who was kind to me. Her name was Ginger. She was younger than Madame Christine, but she was married to a gypsy. She taught me to read and write. Well, a little bit. And she looked out for me. She was so pretty. And you know, She smelled like roses. She showed me, once, that she had a little bottle of rose water, she told me that was what it was. It was blue glass and there was a picture of a rose on the label. When she had a bath she said she always put a few drops in. She also would dab some on her wrists and behind her ears. I miss nothing about those gypsies" he said vehemently, "she was not one of them, Shadow. She was a girl who had run away from an orphan home and fallen in love with the man she married. I was still little when I was there, so, maybe I am not remembering it well. She might have loved her husband but she told me one day she would go off on her own and have her own adventures."
"I am writing a song about roses and about Ginger and in it I say how I hope she had the life she wanted. That I hope she went on adventures. Do you want to hear it?" and here, Rafe sang softly
"The scent of roses
reminds me of you
of your eyes
and your smile
You were so brave
and so true
you kept me safe
from the night
and the thorns
without your
protection
no one would
mourn
without you there
I might not have
survived
I might be an
angel
no longer alive
But here I am
in a home
filled with love
with people
that care
and the stars
up above
and sometimes
at night
when I look at
those stars
I hope that the
road that
you take
brings you light
and that
wherever you go
in the world as
you pass
the scent
of the roses
will linger
and last"
"What do you think?" he asked, stroking Shadow. Shadow purred contentedly. Neither Shadow nor Rafe were aware of another listener. Erik had wandered into the rose garden to snip some of the blooms for a vase to set on the piano. Their scent always made him think of Christine and his gifts of a single red rose tied with a black ribbon, his signature, after every one of her performances.
Even though now they had an entire garden devoted to them, not a performance went by that he didn't have one delivered to her dressing room. It made her very happy.
He was very touched by Rafe's song and how this girl was sometimes the only thing that kept Rafe from meeting an all too early demise at the hands of that monster. That she was married to a gypsy at an early age and traveled with them but still had hopes and dreams of adventure made Erik muse on where she might be. No one ever spoke up for him or stood up to his own gypsy master when he was caged and humiliated. How he had wished for his own "Ginger" who might have protected him. Oh, well. No sense in dwelling on that. He had the woman of his heart and the boy whom he, himself, had killed to save.
He casually strolled up to the bench and seated himself beside Raphael. "Monsieur Erik! I have written a song." He said, excitedly. "I believe Shadow was pleased with it, so, would you like to hear it, too?"
"I would love nothing more in the world, my son," Erik beamed. "Please continue." And hearing it, up close, his heart glowed with happiness at this amazing boy and his ability to take that childhood trauma and celebrate the girl who fought dragons for him.
He wondered about Ginger. Wherever she was she deserved to be rewarded.