The secret of the rose

Part 1 Chapter 2

A week has passed since the tragic accident of my parents. I am picked up by myfather's assistant, William Smith, and his wife, waiting for my future move. I had the impression of floating outside my body during this period. I spent the week sleeping and feeding myself by obligation, answering questions by monosyllables. I am in shock. I am only 14 years old and I feel that my life has just ended. The day I dreaded the most has just arrived. I must go pay a last tribute to my parents.

Coble Ward-Smith Funeral Home in Wilmington is crowded with people who came to pay  homage to two highlyrespected people of the community. My vision is veiledby the scene in front of me. Everything is going very fast. People crowd inside the tiny chapel gathering in small groups to discuss. The closed coffins of my parents stand in front of it. A photo taken on their wedding day is mounted diagonally on an easel. Sprays of flowers embellish the tragic scene that is punctuated by sobs from all sides.

An endless line of stranger's advances in front of my grandmother and me at the entrance of the room to shake our hands. I must accept the condolences, one after the other, of people I have never seen and who say they are sorry that I find myself orphaned so young.

- We loved your mother, she will be missed by us all, said a former colleague wiping her tears with a handkerchief.

- I'm sorry for you, Miss Parker. So young, it's tragic, said a fat man, shaking my hand a little too hard.

I swallow my tears, trying not to cry in front of each new face that comes before me. I need to, in honorof my parents. I must show everyone that I am strong. But all I want is to cry until I fall from exhaustion and never wake up again. How am I going to live with this immense sorrow that inhabits me and kills me slowly?

My grandmother, who is by my side, wipes her tears to every word of gratitude that people express about her son. I know all this is pure comedy. This octogenarian has no ounce of compassion. Her only pleasure is to peddle gossip about the people of the village where she lives. She has always been unkind to me and my parents.  I have no happy memories shared with this old woman. All I know about her comes from stories told by my parents.

She rejected her only son, my father, when he met his future wife at a prom. A tall brunette with irresistible charm and angelic personality. He fell madly in love with her. They were the ideal couple. On the other hand, this young woman had been raised in the Catholic religion, which was not the case of my father. He has therefore set aside his Baptist religion to live this mutual love. They lived a long time in secret. But when their relationship became more serious, they were forced to reveal everything.

This was the worst blasphemy for my grandmother who only preaches for the scriptures of the Bible. Fervent reformed of this religion; she said that there was no worse sin. Despite the desperate attempts to reconnect with his mother, my father had to live his life as he pleased. I only saw my grandmother on rare occasions throughout my childhood. Visits of convenience, which were very brief. My grandmother, now of advanced age, has never deigned to take some news of her only granddaughter pretending that she is the result of an abominable sin. For this narrow-minded woman, the scriptures of the Bible do not allow one to worship another God. Now I am caught in her nets. What will my life be with her? I am just anxious to imagine it.

At the pastor's signal, people sit on the lined chairs facing the altar. My grandmother and I will sit in the first row reserved for us. A soft music embellishes the atmosphere overloaded with sadness. After the celebrantreading the liturgy, people get up in turn to tell  good moments lived with the deceased. These memories are numerous and imperishable. People burst into tears at the reminder of my mother's kindness or burst out laughing while remembering the jokes that my father made to relax the ambiance during meetings. Despite the touching testimonies, I stay strong until the end of the ceremony.

My parents are buried in the ground for their last rest at Oleander Memorial Gardens. Tears run down my cheeks, but no sound escapes my lips. People place red roses on the coffins, my mother's favorite flowers. I do not have any more strength. The electrifying energy that I always had, ended up leaving my body. After a last goodbye, people are scattered to join their car. I cannot put one foot in front of the other. I am paralyze in front of the coffins that begin their descent into the pit. After a few moments, I feel Mrs. Smith's arm coming to help me.

By leaning on her, I head for her car. Mrs. Smith sits in the back seat and invites me to do the same. She holds my hand in the hope of comforting me. I am escorted home byher husband, my father's partner. He who had been his assistant for several years had become a sincere friend over time.

No words are spoken throughout the journey. My head leaning against the window, I look at the landscape that scrolls in slow motion. This is the last time I see these streets that share my memories. Tears flow abundantly down my cheeks. I have no energy to hold them back. You can feel the discomfort that embellishes the mood of the luxury car. Mr. Smith occasionally looks in his rear-view mirror to see if I am okay.

The journey seems short, too short. The gate opens in front of the car, welcoming us with its path dotted with flowers. It is heartbreaking when I arrive in front of my house. I must tell myself to be strong as I try to hold back my tears at the sight of this house that has seen me grow and where I have only known happiness. The place where I kissed my parents for the last time. This place where my friends were welcome at any time. Now I will not be able to see them anymore. I will not be able to share with them our stories of love with some boys in my class. This house will no longer hear my laughter and my crazy stories.