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Roses in the Window
I didn’t much care for second grade.
As a notorious rebel without a cause, I stubbornly refused all contents of my book bag. At reading time, I occupied an old rocking chair in the corner, skinny-legged and rickety. It was situated just next to the window seat, rocking dangerously close to the wall behind. I remained oblivious to the rest of class and whatever we were meant to be reading. I stared blankly past the glass window panes, wishing to be anywhere else.
One day, a flower pot appeared beside my perch. It contained a carnival rose, just barely clinging to life. I remember well its sickly wilt and the yellow tinge to its petals. It was delicate as a tissue, crumbling between my tiny fingers. Deep green foil enclosed the pot, glowing like Christmas against the red brick wall.
Rather than read or lament, I turned my attention to the plant. I watered it daily, exactly one capful from my stout bottle. I plucked the dead leaves and angled it towards the sunlight. With that complete, I’d eye it feverishly, rocking the chair slow and deliberate. The teacher puzzled over this strange behavior but made no attempts at intervention. I was willing the rose to grow— I was willing the rose to live.
Eventually, a furious pink replaced the pallor. Flames sprung from the pistil, painting the petals in gold. It was lovelier than I could have imagined, and as far as I was concerned, it was my own.
I began to devise elaborate plans for future botanical conservation. A new pot, extra top soil, perhaps even a hairdryer to keep it warm. But that all went sideways on the last day of school, when Jean crept up towards my chair. “Thanks for taking care of my plant,” she said. “I’ll see you next year!” She swept up the rose and blew out the door, a leaf on the fresh summer wind.
My dearest, most beloved flower was never seen again. I watched it depart in the same way I watched the window— rocking slow and sighing.
© Katherine Steffeter
As a notorious rebel without a cause, I stubbornly refused all contents of my book bag. At reading time, I occupied an old rocking chair in the corner, skinny-legged and rickety. It was situated just next to the window seat, rocking dangerously close to the wall behind. I remained oblivious to the rest of class and whatever we were meant to be reading. I stared blankly past the glass window panes, wishing to be anywhere else.
One day, a flower pot appeared beside my perch. It contained a carnival rose, just barely clinging to life. I remember well its sickly wilt and the yellow tinge to its petals. It was delicate as a tissue, crumbling between my tiny fingers. Deep green foil enclosed the pot, glowing like Christmas against the red brick wall.
Rather than read or lament, I turned my attention to the plant. I watered it daily, exactly one capful from my stout bottle. I plucked the dead leaves and angled it towards the sunlight. With that complete, I’d eye it feverishly, rocking the chair slow and deliberate. The teacher puzzled over this strange behavior but made no attempts at intervention. I was willing the rose to grow— I was willing the rose to live.
Eventually, a furious pink replaced the pallor. Flames sprung from the pistil, painting the petals in gold. It was lovelier than I could have imagined, and as far as I was concerned, it was my own.
I began to devise elaborate plans for future botanical conservation. A new pot, extra top soil, perhaps even a hairdryer to keep it warm. But that all went sideways on the last day of school, when Jean crept up towards my chair. “Thanks for taking care of my plant,” she said. “I’ll see you next year!” She swept up the rose and blew out the door, a leaf on the fresh summer wind.
My dearest, most beloved flower was never seen again. I watched it depart in the same way I watched the window— rocking slow and sighing.
© Katherine Steffeter
