White Roses
He placed them on the grey marble headstone before him, directly across from the epitaph engraved elegantly on it. He looked at the name, the delicate loops and curls forming the letters that spelled out Narcissa Black. Beneath them was carved Beloved wife and mother. The word Mother brought tears to his eyes with a startling familiarity.
They remained there, staining his cheekbones with glistening streaks. He began to talk, his voice soft, low, gentle, yet there was no one there other than him. He spoke, and his words fell down like autumn leaves, sifting through the cold stone. He brought her news of his father. He was not well. He had been well since that dark, rain-soaked day. He told her of his job, of the days spent hunched over a small Ministry desk, sorting papers and filling out forms. He told her of everything, but his words masked his real reason for coming. He sighed as a breeze ruffled his hair. With it came the scent of the roses.
Her voice sounded in his mind, chiding. Who is she? He grimaced, then said the word that always seemed to be on the tip of his tongue these days, pronouncing it with the uttermost care, letting it melt on his lips like an exquisite yet bittersweet chocolate. Astoria, he had said, and his face glowed, she's Astoria.
And then it had all exploded, overflowed, words that had been locked up in his heart to long spilling out in a cascade of hot tears. The sentences flowed and merged, fragmented, and a final, anguished cry:How do I know that this is love?!
He had fallen to the ground, arms draped on the grave. He had wept.
Slowly, his sobs ceased, the last traces of his tears shining on his cheeks.
Slowly, he raised his head, the sun burning his eyes.
Slowly, his mother's words reached him once more, and those words made the sunlight a blessing, not a curse. You will simply know.
He thought of his mother, as white and cold as snow in death, and as separate from the world as it, too.
Of his father, bitter, wallowing in misery over dreams deferred.
He thought of new beginnings, of the beauty and delicacy of the color white, and of the perfection of dresses that color.
He is nineteen, and the roses are white.
As he rises from the hard, cold earth, the small velvet box a comforting reassurance in his pocket, he looks at the roses and makes his choice.
a/n: This one took me ages to write, I wanted it to be perfect and then I had writer's block. Please, please, please review…thanks!
