Rose

Rose

Neha Dronamraju

Walt calls for his wife every day. During our reading sessions, smoke breaks, garden walks, and dinners. It’s an ugly call—knotted, withered, soaked with sorrow. I remember a single magpie I saw years ago. I tried to lead her to my home, but she refused and waited for a mother who would not return.

One for sorrow, two for joy.

Souls imbue the turpentine walls and bright white tiles (I convince myself to ease the seclusion). When I’m not watching Him, I drive my ears into the gridwalls and strain to seek refuge in their whispers. To no avail—they never bear comfort. And when I tire of monsters under the sheetrock, I pine for open air.

On July nights the ladybugs come out to play. Their scarlet backs line up in rows—marching band style—and they flutter their wings and kick their legs to the tune of “Giant Steps.” Beat the oppressive heat by virtue of a slight frame. Beat summertime tragedy with jazz and soul. July is a rare month of lucidity for Walt. He’s daydreaming in the courtyard and I’m flitting from wire to wire, adjusting mask, monitor, gown. We’re supposed to be reading books, but every time I suggest one, he shuts me down. Mystery? “Too predictable.” Science fiction? “That shit’s for teenagers.” Let’s try Beat poetry. “Affluenza boys. Never read a noble Cassady, a sober Ginsberg . . .” What about horror? “Do I have children?”

So we sit through early summer picking our thumbs and watching birds. In three months’ time, I’m going to disintegrate from sweltering Texas heat.

Break. In the middle he asks to leave.

An outrageous request, but I am as eager to live as my derisive companion. And when I oblige, I light a fire behind his ancient eyes; it is enough fuel for my conscience. Enough to justify a breach in protocol, losing a job. We don’t speak, but we lock a gaze that holds midnight plans: three sharp knocks on the door, unhook, swing from window to grass, feel young for the first time.

At 2:15 in the morning there is so much pull and riot and elation in my chest that breath is elusive. I look down in front of me and see bliss, catch a glimpse of heaven. Only street lamps light our path and we are tied to each other’s company. He sings as I propel his wheels forward, pacing according to the intensity of his tune. He sings her name and it doesn’t sound so ugly anymore. The cracks in his voice are more pronounced as they bounce from mural to alley to motel brick back to throat.

If I freeze, I can block out the wheels, the wind, occasional cars, and sparse nighttime chatter. I can reify the love in his voice. If I shut my eyes so tight that I see red dots, those dots will morph into a young couple slow dancing down an empty street on a July evening. Morning. Her silk skirt laps around her ankles as she spins in and out of devoted arms. The joy in his face is boundless. At this moment, it feels enough to spin the earth.

If I were a doctor, I would wipe Walt’s memory entirely. A painful affliction of existence is: existing in the grounds between life and death. Where satisfaction is elusive so you trickle in and out of reality to keep yourself sane.

I hear my name, gnarled and ugly, and I turn to face Him.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Whatever you’re thinking about.”

This is the truth. I’ve known Walt for two months, but that’s long enough to understand that he often contemplates his own fragility and dependence. What used to be and what is no longer.

A rare month of understanding for me.

As July melts into August, I part ways with Walt. Without tears or heartache and with the promise of reunification. When fall turns into winter and winter into spring, the constellations shift west. In July, the East Sky may present a sluggish jumble of stars—dull, purposeless, and soaked with sorrow. But in early March, the West Sky celebrates. Its stars dance and glimmer and float in the shape of newlyweds. West Sky sings songs of redemption and afterlife, songs of love and longing, songs for Walt and Rose.

In the spring, West Sky calls “Rose, Rose, Rose” and I realize—that’s how it was meant to sound.

-Neha Dronamraju is a third-year undergraduate from Dallas, TX, pursuing a major in Public Health.-