Rose –page 7
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Rose stood there. The sound of his voice and hers soaring, harmonizing "la -nd - of - the - free" was in her ears. She watched as his shadow was enveloped by the shadow of the tall Norway pine, which Perry had planted on the east edge of their yard.
Her hand automatically went to her wrist and felt the cold metal of Perry's watch that she always wore, as she whispered what she whispered many times in the course of a day like a litany, "I miss you, need you, love you, Perry..." Then she picked up the shopping bags. Perry's mother lived with her and mother-in-law Celeste didn't like to be kept waiting.
All the way home, and it wasn't just a few blocks away, Wynn chewed over what he'd said that made Rose Marechal say what she'd said about his work, his commitment, his life. Even though he hadn't said so in words, he felt hemmed in, stuck. It was something Wynn had promised himself he'd never let happen to him.
At home, a sprawling, ranch style pink stucco, he quickly dug for the key in the plastic lemon tree's flowerpot, quickly wiped his feet on the yellow straw W E L C O M E mat. Inside, the brightness, yellow, blue, red everything, the cute, fragile, dust-collecting bric-a-brac, all the modern conveniences inundating him, he glanced at thermometer, a hand-carved, hand painted wooden bird—sixty-four degrees. Too cold for comfort, not cold enough for the solar heating system to kick in.
Without removing his jacket, he headed down the yellow carpeted hallway, passing the doors of the four closed-off bedrooms. The fifth door, his room at the end of the corridor was wide open but the room was ice cold. He grabbed what he needed, headed back to the kitchen, pushed aside the breakfast things on the red enamel table, and set his pen to the paper.
It was just a note to his best friend in Seattle who didn't need salutations or explanations:
"Scout around for me, Mike,
let me know if there are any
interesting jobs in your
neck of the woods.
Your old chum here in Pa.
needs a change and challenge."
He and stuck the letter in an envelope. Outside at the mailbox on the corner of Rose Avenue and Walnut, Wynn mailed it. "Thank you Rose, of Rose Avenue."
He liked saying her name, wasn't sure why till he said, ”Thanks Rose” again. And realized that each time he said the name, the avenue, the flower, the lady—his lips took on the shape of a kiss.
Rose -- Want to read more? go to to Amazon.com to download the ebook.
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