The Color of Roses	    The Color of Roses

 by Lys

  

 

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 Author's Notes: 

 Story Notes: 

 

 

 Title: The Color Of Roses
 Author: Lys reached at tyklys@hotmail.com Rated G
 No Pairings
 No Spoilers 

 The idea for this story is from a memory I have from my own childhood. An
explanation for that will be at the end of the story. 

 This is another story that niggled until I started writing it. Get out a
hanky. 

 The age of nine is an odd age for more than the obvious reason. At nine
you can remember being rather silly as a younger child and yet have no
really clear vision of how you will be when you are older. Nine allows you
to sit and listen and swing your legs back and forth under the table
because your feet don't quite touch the floor. The sublime age of nine is
when your mind starts wondering just why certain things happen and you are
still at the wondering stage of believing that anything can happen. At
nine, when you sit in church you try to fold your hands and behave with
proper decorum just as your elders think you should. However, at nine, you
easily fall into childish fits of inattentiveness and become unaware of
adult displeasure until you feel a steely grip upon your arm. All things
are possible at the age of nine. But nine is also the age where suddenly
things happen to shake your world; nine is the age you realize that just
maybe other people see things a little differently than you do. 

 And so it was for little Benton Fraser, son of Robert Fraser and
grandchild of Martha and George Fraser. The winter weather had long since
begun to give in to spring's mildness of temperament and the dog sled was
no longer needed for regular Sunday excursions to church services. Church
services were currently held a little closer to home than usual as they
were living in a more populated area than was their usual wont. In deed,
going to church had become an enjoyable time for Benton as they could
actually walk the village path through the green growth of spring in to
the village and attend church in an actual church building rather than in
a school house or in someone's barn. 

 One particular Sunday the year Benton was nine, he wandered the path to
Sunday school and church alone. Normally, he would be dressed in his best
clothing and walk along the path between the two tall shadows of his
grandparents. But on this day, one of his grandfather's sled dogs was
having a rather bad time whelping a new litter of pups and his
grandparents had suggested that he move along and go to church by himself,
he was after all nine years old and capable of doing such a task. 

 So Benton trotted into the cabin like the normally obedient child he was
and dressed for church. He pulled on his best dress slacks and shirt then
slid his feet into warm socks and debated wearing his hiking boots or his
dress shoes. The better part of valor won out and he encased his feet in
the hiking boots. He reasoned that there was too much spring oozing into
the path and he didn't want to risk being taken to task for ruing his good
Sunday-Go-ToMeeting shoes. He completed his ensemble with a light sweater
and jacket. He thrust some of his more precious nine-year-old things into
his pockets and ran out of the cabin. He walked quietly up to the barn
door and leaned in being sure to keep his feet well hidden from view of
the interior. 

 "I'm going now Grandma." The curly hair on his head threatened to escape
the neat brushing he had given it so Ben stilled the movement of his head.


 George Fraser grinned at his wife and continued to soothe the female
husky laying at his feet. Martha Fraser turned to the barn door just long
enough to admonish Benton to get a move on and be home without stopping
along the way to investigate any oddities that might be laying open to
view along the path home. 

 Nine-year-old Benton grinned and answered in a husky whisper; "I'll be
home quickly as I can Grandma." He turned and made off quickly down the
path to the village. 

 He arrived in time to join some of his best friends before services were
scheduled to start and then made his way to the choir box where he sat in
his usual seat in-between the empty seats his grandparents would normally
occupy. He settled in and tried to behave with absolute adult stillness.
He succeeded very well and at the end of the service he was very proud of
himself for having acquitted himself well. 

 The service had been a long one and Benton tried his best, but even
though he looked like he was paying attention he soon was the captive of a
wandering nine-year-old mind. And, so it was that at the end of the
service he really had no idea what had been the topic of the day. He was
startled into the revelation of this fact when he found himself in the
long line of people leaving the church building and knew he had no clear
idea of what to tell his grandparents about the service. And so it was
that he was not really paying attention at all to the words of the
official 'greeters' as he neared them and had a white rose put in his
small hands. One of its sharp thorns cut his flesh and he glanced quickly
up in confusion at the lady who had put it into his hand. Her eyes looked
so sad and for a moment she looked like she might cry. She leaned over and
kissed the hair on his head and bid him a good day. 

 Benton followed some of his friends out the door and stood looking down
at the rose in his hand. He didn't remember ever being given a rose in
church before. He was thoroughly puzzled. He looked around and noticed all
the other children that had attended services standing around with their
families, each child with a rose in their hand. Benton looked from child
to child and then down to the rose in his hand. He squinted his eyes at it
and looked at its lovely white petals. Then he turned his head and looked
again at the roses in the other children's hands. Red, every other rose
was red. Benton suddenly felt left out and different. The feeling gnawed
at his chest and made him feel his lungs pulling tightly at him. His eyes
suddenly felt gritty and wet and he hid his face from his friends. Several
of his best friends yelled to him but he turned quietly and walked away
from the church and back to the path that would lead him home. 

 Green budding things and sunshine and young spring bugs tried to gain the
attention of young Benton on his way home. Even the gushy, oozing mud
tugged at his hiking boots and seemed to be an animate thing as it gripped
and pulled at the souls of his boots. The white rose stayed gripped
tightly in his fingers as he walked. No childish bouncing from near puddle
to puddle broke his walk. Not once did he lift his eyes to the sun and
grin like a young growing thing. The white rose's petals were tight and
unfurled and untainted by the first blush of brownish edges. It was
freshly cut and beautiful in his hands. 

 Martha Fraser was just finishing clearing off the kitchen counter and
beginning to prepare Sunday dinner when she heard the first heavy step of
Benton's hiking boots on the wooden stoop outside the kitchen door. She
grabbed a towel and wiped off her hands with a grin. She stood waiting for
Benton to come in the door. His shadow preceded him and she waited
patiently for his little head to lean in first and check out the room. She
always found it amusing that Benton seemed to want to know what he was
walking into before he entered a room. 

 He stepped inside and stood quietly by the door, the white rose clutched
fiercely in his hands. Her heart sank nearly to her feet as she realized
just what marked this date on the calendar. She rushed forward and put her
arms around the small boy. 

 The boy looked up at her with bright wetness in his eyes. "Everyone else
got a red rose, Grandma. Why did I get a white one?" 

 Martha put her arms around the boy in a soft hug and walked with him over
to the kitchen table where she had him sit down and took the white rose
from his hand. 

 "Better put that in a vase child. Shame to waste such a beautiful thing."
She turned quickly away and went to the cupboard where she pulled out a
large, glass vase and then filled it with water. She kept her back to the
boy for a few seconds and then walked back to the table and gently took
the rose and placed it reverently into the vase. Then she sat carefully
down at the table and looked directly into her grandson's eyes. "Some say
the red rose is a sign of ever lasting love and that white roses are a
sign of a love even stronger than death. They handed out roses today for
Mother's Day. It's an old tradition. Didn't the minister talk about it
during service?" She watched the eyes she loved change color and become
dark pools of pain. She paused and ran the fingers of her right hand
through the boy's hair. "I should have gone to church with you today,
Benton." She leaned over and pulled him into a tight hug. "I'm so sorry
little one." 

 At first Benton hugged her back but after a few seconds he pulled back,
patted her hand and got up from the table. He looked down at the rose and
turned away towards his bedroom. He undressed and put his Sunday things
away. He pulled on clean jeans and a heavy sweater and grabbed his
backpack. He walked back out to the kitchen and put his pack by the door.
Without one look at the white rose he helped his grandmother set the table
and prepare Sunday diner. 

 When his grandfather came in he watched the boy with interest and gave
his wife a questioning look. She merely nodded at the white rose and put
the meal on the table. They exchanged sad looks and George went to clean
up. When he returned they sat at the table where George said their prayer
of grace and the family ate silently. 

 When the nearly silently eaten meal was almost over, George eyed Benton
with a grin in his eye. "Ready to meet the new pups?" 

 Benton smiled enthusiastically and grinned back then he sobered up a bit.
"How's Sadie Granpa?" 

 "She's just fine. Seven pups and they nearly all look like her." George
nodded at the door. "I think Grandma will forgive you this once if you
want to run out and see them without helping to clean up." 

 The boy looked quickly to his grandmother and took off quickly when he
saw her approving smile. 

 "I forgot and I feel so guilty." Martha said as tears threatened to run
down her cheeks. 

 "We both forgot. But I think it'll be OK. We just have to be here for
him." 

 Martha pushed her chair back and stepped over to the cabin door. George
rose and followed her. Together they walked quietly to their barn and
stood silently watching at the barn door. George's hand slid over Martha's
protectively as they heard the small boy inside telling the newborn pups
not to worry, their mother was all right. 

 This story is dedicated to a memory I have of my own mother. My mother's
mother died when she was less than 28 days away from her second birthday.
Her parents had been estranged and had divorced, not a usual occurrence in
1926. My mother and her siblings went to live with their maternal aunt and
uncle who tried to be very real and loving parents for them. They had no
biological child of their own until my mother had been living with them
for a couple of years. So their bond was close. My mother told me the
story of one Sunday that it was brought home to her that she was different
that her 'sister' Pat. That was a Mother's Day Sunday and Pat received a
red rose and my mother and her older sister received white ones. My mom
said that even on the day she was telling me about it, the hurt was still
there for she had never felt truly different from her 'sister' until that
day. 

 Lys 

End The Color of Roses by Lys: tyklys@hotmail.com

Author and story notes above.