The Story of Rose (A True Story)

Rose sat in the newly-packed dirt surrounded by green foliage. Her bright pink petals, imbued with shades of red, caught the light from the rising sun. She lifted up her head and felt the sun’s rays begin to warm the dewdrops that had settled in between the folds of her petals. A breeze gently shook Rose and the dewdrops slid down her petals and onto the ground. A small group of walking trees, with flailing limbs, high-pitched voices, and stringy petals and leaves, rumbled over the big, rough stone that bordered her garden to the west and climbed into the moving gray rock, a process Rose observed each time the sun came up. The gopher living under the porch dodged past her as he scampered out of his hole, probably scared by the noises of the moving trees. She nodded her head in greeting, watched the trees crawl away, and then went back to basking in the light.

Rose knew that the invaders would come again today. They never came in the morning with the bees (whom she didn’t mind much). They always came in the mid-morning, after the sun had made her tilt her head until it was almost straight. She wished she could do something to stop their incessant chewing and rampant destruction. She looked down at her tattered deep-green leaves, edged with ruddy brown, and sighed. Some of her sisters still had intact leaves. She wondered if their turn to face the invaders would ever come, or if they would escape unscathed day after day, enjoying their own beauty while her beauty faded away with each bite of the invaders’ creeping jaws.

The bright sun arced higher in the sky. Rose could feel herself straightening and reaching, absorbing every ray that found its way to her leaves. She knew the time was quickly approaching and strained to hear any sound beyond the birds chirping and the gophers chattering in the grass. Then, like the far-off call of a wolf among the woods on a night-time hunt, she heard a faint chopping sound that drew nearer to her by the moment. Soon a hard emerald green and brown creature landed on one of her lower leaves. She longed to have limbs like the walking giants so she could reach down and pluck the invader off of her leaf and fling it with all of her might, far away from her and her sisters’ leaves, forever. She, however, watched helplessly as he dug his dark jaws into her leaf and started chewing. The insipid little creature released some sort of substance into the breeze. It hung in the air for a moment and then disappeared. Rose knew what was coming next: a swarm of the same creatures, like tiny jewels, would storm her leaves and stay until the sun met the horizon.

In the distance, Rose saw the moving rock approaching quickly, a snail-turned-sprinter coming to aid her in her deepest hour of need. One of the walking trees got out of the rock, strolled over to the big, rough stone, and happened to glance her way just before it went inside. It savagely plucked the invader from her leaf and stomped on it, right there underneath her netted leaves. A shiver of joy spread from her roots to her pink petals. She was once again safe in the heat of the sun, at peace in the glow of the morning.