It’s gone… withered away. It’s wrapped in its cocoon of new fashions at Back-To-School prices and freshly-minted textbooks. We used to bury it in old grocery bags, taping it to the books, so we could perform artistic resuscitation with Sharpies™ to disguise our 45-lb. Adventures in American History: The Insomniac’s Edition.
It’s a long-lost memory, now, here in the Deep South, where we greet Autumn with the height of Hurricane Season, rather than hot cocoa and plaid.
It used to disintegrate slowly after the last kiss with that person we met at the beach during the rose’s full bloom, insulated from God Knows What by our innocence. That, of course, was lost then, too.
The last rose wouldn’t have passed on so soon, but it’s now much more convenient to place it between the bookends of 20th-Century Commemorations of Military Valor and Hard Work. Its annual birth and death are offset from their “true” astronomical dates, between Solstice and Equinox. Time itself doesn’t mind; we place it as we need it.
We change out of the swim suits and sandals, and lay the last rose to rest in its sunscreen-scented casket. I know I shall mourn it, albeit briefly. There is much to be done between Equinox and Solstice, as the Longest Nights march toward us. We’ll also mourn as the light dies in the sky, but our joy is ensconced in frost, snow, and swaddling cloths.
Alas, poor Rose; I knew you well. If only we could subdue the hustle, bustle, and hassle, and forever chase the infernal bug truck on our Stingray bikes. Would we could inhale your sugary fragrance and the New Jersey air freshener of our youth (DDT) ad infinitum.
Or was that ad nauseum?
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