Black Rose

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She had been ill for a long time.
Her cells were dividing and growing too rapidly,
the cancer consumed her life.
Her face was pale as snow and all color was gone,
she grew weaker and weaker everyday,
as the devastating effects of the cancer grew more prominent.
She got thinner and more frail, every time we saw her.

I remember how when my brother and I were little,
she would bring us presents for the holidays,
memorable things that had once been special to her,
such as souvenirs that she had purchased from other countries
or pins that her husband had received in the duration of his military years.
She would watch over us,
her eyes constantly followed throughout our various activities,
she liked to watch because she had never had grandkids,
even though she had adamantly wanted them.
She liked to make sure we didn’t get into any trouble.

But now we couldn’t do anything for her.
Her husband’s thick brown hair had gone gray,
worry consumed his life.
It seemed like the longest, most horrible death as seasons kept changing.
She continued to fight what seemed like an endless battle,
until finally, her suffering ended and she slipped into the endless abyss of her forever.

All we had left of her,
was the sharp pain of the wilted, drooping, sad
black rose that had been placed on our front porch,
to let us know that our dear friend was no longer here.





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