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withering rose

On the Feast of St Dominic, a beautiful, unique, and never to be seen again Rose faded from this earth.

St. Dominic, pray for our Rose.

But, I. . . . I am blessed. I beheld her twilight radiance for a bit. I cradle her gently for a bit.

Even with all the voices of heaven supporting us, it was so difficult. For I knew that when I let this rose fall from my anxious grasp, it would be forever. Rather than letting go, I fiercely caress her soft but dying skin.

But, just for a bit. St Dominic, you are praying for us, right?

My tears flow, bulbous drops defining heaviness itself. They pelt the soft unopened pedals but they did no damage; the damage already done is of a magnitude that cannot be undone.

Oh you holy men and women, you white robbed martyrs, you saints of the eternal kingdom, you angelic beings, do you not hear our prayers? Blessed Mother, are you there? Do you not see a father holding his tiny stillborn daughter? Do you not see a mother, just like you Mary, crying over the loss of her child?

Oh, please, court of our most heavenly King, we need that small still voice to assure us. Will you pray for us now as well as at the hour of our death?

Did her precious soul already pass through the gates of heaven?

Did my grandmother take her hand and dance with her? Did my great aunt give her a mischievous smile? Did my father say he was thrilled to finally meet one of his grandchildren? Did Mr. Tolkien tell her about a white star? Did Mr. Eliot assure her that in her end is her beginning.

But here and now, in this terribly sterile hospital room, the soul departs before we can even say goodbye. . .
Tears flow down my face and onto hers. But, as heavy as they are, they do not damage this flower. God had decided from the beginning not to let this flower bloom; her damage is beyond repair.

My tears that fall onto hers became a stream—one that bridges eternity.

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