Roses and Thorns

It is one of my favourite memories.

The snowflakes fall far from my window, dancing icy fragments swept by an overhead winter breeze.

Outside, the world is blanketed in an encompassing layer of white, to the point nothing can be seen. No green is visible in the garden, the myriad of coloured flowers concealed. The whoops and calls of my sisters ring out across the icy landscape, dressed in their furred winter dresses and sturdy winter boots.

Jeanne, eight maybe nine then, runs on ahead of Felix, who is wheeling his wooden sleigh up the small hill that towers over the small garden. She runs with high-legged kicks, like a jovial rabbit, before collapsing face-first into the snow, waving her arms to make a snow angel. A laughing red-faced Agnes toddles up and follows suit.

My stubby fingers reverently trace the freezing pane, so close yet so far from my touch. But Papa tells me I cannot go out and I am too eager to disobey his words.

So I stay in my room and watch the others play. My siblings seem more like strangers, living lives separate and seemingly completely oblivious to my own one. The semi-transparent glass, patterned over with spiralling frost, provides me a perspective into another world- one of fun and freedom, but also futility.

I watch until the fresh white has faded into the darkened azure of evening, but even through the darkness, the snow still glows white. There is a thunder of feet and breathless chatter that reverberates through the winding wooden halls as my siblings crowd in. I can imagine them shuffling off their wet, snow-encrusted coats and shoes by the doorway.

To distract myself, I turn to my most beloved possession- the single rose standing within a neat vase on my windowsill. I had recovered it just as summer was ending and had sustained it throughout the autumn, but it seemed as if it wouldn’t escape winter. The cold had already shrivelled it’s crimson petals to a mottled pink, slumping over the glass edge.

I stroke the petals with the utmost gentility, but another one shudders off, breezing down to the floor.

The sight of it hurts me more than my own loneliness.

An hour after they have all come in, a heavier set of footsteps creak down the hall and up the winding stairs, to where my bedroom is. They halt outside my door and a broad-framed man edges his way in, two steaming mugs of cocoa clutched in each outstretched hand.

A smile breaks across my face as I find one thrust into my smaller awaiting hands.

Its warmth cascades down my throat like molten gold.

Papa takes a creaking seat on my bed, watching me drink up the treat. He stands above most other men, almost too big for my room. There has always been something so comforting about his massive stature- from his dark, unruly beard to his solemn grey eyes, he reminds me of a great bear- fearsome in aspect, but tender in private.

"If your mother was alive, it would break her heart to see you alone, just like it has done to mine." he mutters.

My pressed palms retract from the window.

"But Papa, why can't I go outside and play with the others?" I ask, oblivious to the torment of my innocent question.

His head hangs lower, eyes almost completely obscured by the knotweed-like tangles of his unkempt hair. Through the spaces, they gloss over with long-dormant tears, blinked back.

He places a large, warm hand on my tiny shoulder.

"I wish you could, my flower- more than any treasure in the world," he tells me, "but you are...different from your brothers and sisters."

He looks around my nursery, struggling for further explanation as I look up at him.

I stare out to the distant snow outside.

"The world is a cruel place, my heart, especially to those who are different. That is why you must stay in here."

His words melt in my ears like the frozen land beyond. I am too young to understand what he means- or what I truly am. I only see his dark eyes, rimmed with regret.

He sweeps me up into a crushing embrace, one that nearly encompasses my whole body. Then he bids me a quiet goodnight before shutting the door.

I remember turning back to the window, just as the half-crescent moon cut through the shrouding dark clouds, like the serrated edge of a sword, illuminating the white mass below. My room was shrouded in shadows. Any other child would have been afraid of what lurked in the darkness, waiting to snatch them up, but for me, it provided a sense of serenity.

The rose, still hunched away on the corner, shivered in the cold air. I regarded the pathetic sight with an equal sympathy.

I watched in quiet wonder as the dead plant juddered back to life in the palm of my hand.