MOURNING ROSE

filled with gentle rolling hills of gravestones and browning grass. Autumn winds have already stripped the old, gnarled trees bare of their fiery leaves. A mizzle sets in again and a breeze flutters a few leaves across the stone path. You hug the hood of your coat closer to your face against the mournful chill.

Wandering between stone mausoleums and marble statues of weeping angels adorned with moss and lichen, a pop of color catches your eye. A large bouquet of red roses lays upon a newer grave. You walk toward it, leaves crunching under your boots. Once at the gravesite, the scent of freshly turned soil fills the air. You stare at the words chiseled into the new granite headstone. "Rest now, my love," it reads. You bend over to pluck a loose red rose petal from the ground and roll it between your fingers, feeling its velvety foliage. Releasing the subtle floral scent as it blends with petrichor, you ponder the life and end days of the cemetery's newest eternal tenant.