Your head feels like a crystal hologram that represents the rose tree
planted near the sidewalk in your front yard. Its buds are blooming
red and white. You can almost smell the fragrance from this merry
sight, a hint of sweetness wafting on the predawn air that is assuming
hues of morning light. The shades won't let you rest until you've seen
the slow unfurling of each blossom like an open-ended spiral winding out
into the world. And then the the petals scatter and like butterflies careen
away upon a subtle breeze. Treat them as our memories. Can you doubt
that we live on as long as you are here to nurture them? We aren't the ones
who hold you here. You feel the truth in what the rose tree says. Your
missing loved ones couldn't block your path, it's only you who chastens
your desire to to stay as sole survivor. Perhaps you're lost no more.
The rose tree petals rise, a swirl of red and white that melts and flows
into your river. The Boatman calmly steers the course you chose.