Rose

There is a shack on top of a hill.  A woman lives there with her daughter.  Everyday the woman rides her bike down the hill to buy food and sell flowers.  With the money she purchases supplies and music books for her daughter to practice with.

One day, the woman gathered her things and prepared to bike home.  The sun was setting as she neared her home when she noticed a red mark on the ground.  Blood? No, a rose, but how?  The only roses that grew in her country were in her garden.  She brought the seeds with her when she moved there as a child.  She biked home.

That night she was tending to her flowers when she noticed a bumble bee taking a nap on one of her peonies.  Aw, she though to herself, a little bumble bee has been helping me all this time.

Content, she fell asleep reading.  The next day she went to the market.  On the way she stopped to admire the wild rose.  The one so boldly adventuring outside the safety of the green house.  Day after day she stopped to say hello until one day the rose was not there.

Later that week while at the market she happened to look down and there was the rose.  She could tell right away.  There is no mistaking the beauty of a wild rose in a country where only captive ones exist.  The stem was short and it had been stepped on and discarded by the picker.  The woman bent down, rolled the flower in a napkin and rushed home.

She misted it and placed it in a vase by the window.  Over the next few days the flower came back to life.  Strong and radiant it looked over the home and brought joy to the woman, but of course like all flowers that are not in the ground it died while the other flowers went on with their lives.

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