It was raining on the day of my grandpa’s funeral. The sky was a vast expanse of gray and the fog was so thick you could hardly see the casket as it was lowered into the ground. The rain came down in sheets, creating rivers in the roads, and my new black velvet dress was soon soaked. I shivered in my black shoes as my tears fell, mixing with the rain that dripped off my face. My grandpa wouldn’t have liked this, all the rain and sadness. He was such a happy man; the world always brightened when he stepped outside, a cheerful smile on his face. As I stood and watched the casket being lowered into the ground, the rain and tears obstructing my vision, it occurred to me that the world itself was mourning the loss of such a great man.



My grandpa was always there with a smile and a hug. His deep laugh was contagious; once he started, no one could stop. And he told the most amazing stories. Stories with pirates and adventures and treasure. Stories about dragons and brave knights and princesses with huge ears. His stories would always leave me rolling on the floor laughing with tears streaming out of my eyes. After he was done telling me a new story, our routine was always the same. I would race off to gather props to use as we acted out the tales of the pirates and knights and princesses in whatever story he just told me that day.

Whenever I went to my grandpa’s house, he had a bouquet of white roses on the table. I don’t know why, I never asked. But just before I left every time I visited, he would pluck one of the roses from the bouquet and place it behind my ear. “Almost as pretty as you,” he would say, and as I walked out the door he would wink at me, his eyes sparkling, smiling at me with his special smile as if we shared a secret that no one else knew.

Of course, at his funeral, there were bouquets of white roses scattered around. And the sight of them made me sick. They were just a reminder. A reminder of all the special times I had with my grandpa, all the special times that I would never have again. I would never see my grandpa again. Never again hear his laugh, never again see his smile, never again be enveloped in his warm embrace. There would be no more stories, no more games, no more white roses tucked behind my ear. Those days were gone, buried deep within the earth like my grandpa.

After the funeral, I ran up to my room and flung myself onto my bed without changing out of my sopping wet dress. I buried my face in the pillow and sobbed. I cried for the good times with my grandpa that I would never forget, for the times that we would’ve had in the future if death hadn’t taken him. I cried for the memories that now would never be made, the stories that would never be told, the white roses that wouldn’t be bought. And I cried for myself. I cried as I thought of what life would be like without my grandpa. He was my light, the only person who could cheer me up when I was sad. He was my adventurer, my partner in crime, my fellow explorer. And he was my best friend. He was always there for me, always knew how to make me smile. He was my first and only consultant with problems. He was the best grandpa anyone could ever have. And now he was gone.

I sobbed for what seemed like hours, my eyes red and swollen and puffy. My head ached and my cheeks were wet. I got up and looked at my mournful expression in the mirror. My big brown eyes stared back at me, framed by long, straggly, brown hair. I remembered how my grandpa would always play with my hair, and I threw myself back onto my bed, my shoulders shaking and my chest heaving, small sobs escaping my mouth.

I remembered playing in the park with my grandpa when I was younger. I would hide somewhere on the playground and he would play along, pretending to be some terrifying monster coming to eat me. When he neared my hiding place, I would shriek and run away and he would run after me, eventually catching me and tickling me until I giggled surrender. The corners of my mouth lifted up into the ghost of a smile, but as I pictured my grandpa in my head, the thought of him lying in the casket all alone drifted through my mind. My chin began to tremble and my lip quivered as hot tears burned the back of my eyes. A cold, hard lump formed in my throat. I swiped a hand over my eyes, but the tears spilled over and streamed down my cheeks.

I buried my face into the pillow again, my whole body shaking with silent sobs. After what seemed like an eternity of crying, a sweet fragrance drifted by and made me open my eyes and sit up. I sniffed the air, looking around for the source of the aroma. My window was closed and so was my door, so the smell couldn’t be coming from outside. I rolled over and my breath caught in my throat.

Lying next to me on the bed was a single, perfect, white rose.