Adapted from a journal entry on 10-28-19
I finished reading The Little Prince* to the children last night, and we cried together. It may have been a terrible mistake, but I did it.
A single pink rose bloomed the day we found out Elliot died despite the cold night, and I call it Elliot’s rose. I first noticed it after returning from the funeral home. Anne and I had just come back from seeing Elliot’s body. The rose blossomed and has lasted through the brisk fall winds and rains, but yesterday, friends cut back our flower beds for the winter. Friends cut the rosebush. Now his flower is gone.
I failed to protect it, this beautiful rose – Elliot’s rose. I did not tell anyone. Then I realize it was not actually mine to protect. I am grateful I did not see it wither on its own. I did not make it bloom and I did not make Elliot bloom either. They each allowed me to enjoy them for 16 days, and 18 years, respectively.
While the little pink rose is gone, I look up at the stars at night and listen for bells, knowing that out in the heavens there is a rose, a sheep, and a boy protecting the rose.
* If you have not read The Little Prince, close your web browser and get a copy.
