Ethereal Rose

As I am writing this text I hear an imaginative humming of the song “You never walk alone.”  Those who truly recognise it, and don’t merely think of it as a sporting anthem, will understand the significance in resemblance I am trying to make.  “As perceptual as the golden letters on top of a cast iron gate, is this loving memory that I will treasure for the rest of my life.” 

Our dad once tried to harmonise our bond by giving us a uniform present each.  He had bought them the morning of his very last day on what he knew to be a ‘once-in-a-lifetime’, never to be repeated, pilgrimage to Lourdes.  As usual, I was one of the lucky ones to be with him, witnessing each process of emotion he went through.  “He has a heart of gold my dad, the weight of it alone makes him literally shake through the knees.” I knew he had spent absolutely ages thinking of that appropriate gift. 

Days before his final purchase, he had swiftly mentioned wanting to buy us something special.  I brushed his comment under the carpet; as I was fully aware of the financial disposition my parents continuously live under.  They can’t always find the funds to support their day-to-day running costs, so I was not in the mood to encourage him to buy something (which in my eyes) he could not afford.  I noticed him getting more and more agitated, I just could not understand why.  After all, we were on holiday, staying in hotel accommodation, even being given an itinerary to follow.  Our only focus or concern was not to miss the breakfast, lunch and dinner slots in the hotel’s restaurant. 

Nevertheless, my dad did not seem to relax fully.  Every natural pause within a leisurely conversation reminded him of the fact that he was still in search of ‘something.’  Rather than relaxing his body and sighing in peace, he would hold his breath, close his eyes, and gnaw his teeth nervously, making his cheeks move uncontrollably.  It was so obvious his brain was working overtime. 

All fell into place a couple of hours before he was due to leave.  We were stood in front of the hotel.  Les Rosiers, a family run, corn yellow, rectangular complex.  Its abstract-looking structure was softened by the display of tropical palm trees near its main entrance, giving it an overall more welcoming atmosphere; a place where most guests are automatically drawn to when the weather becomes pleasantly dry.  The tiled filled terrace encompasses circular tables and tacky green garden chairs; nothing of high-class nature.  Still a place attractive enough where one can sample a nice glass of refreshing liquid and reflect amongst many on a day’s religious therapy. 

It was a glorious day.  I remember shuffling the terrace chairs cosily together as the sun was beating down; leaving little shade to hide under.  There was a group of us reflecting over the adorned wisdoms that we had there discovered.  The concept of this topic made me feel rather relaxed; peculiarly I did not notice the same physical features within my dad.  There was obviously something he needed to get off his chest. 

He got off his chair and made his way down the hotel steps, making a hand-signal to indicate that I should follow him.  I did not know what to make of it and grabbed my husband Karl’s hand hoping his touch would give me the support I thought I was going to need. 

I got it all so wrong; there was nothing to fear.  My dad pulled us to one side and looked over his shoulder.  The things he was about the say were for our ears only.  We were the first ones to reap the benefits from his thoughtful efforts. 

He fiddled about for ages.  I can’t remember what exactly he was holding on to; most possibly a plastic bag in which each gift was pristinely wrapped away.  His hand exited the bag.  Whatever he decided to hold on to was now clearly held tightly into his fist.  Le moment supreme, the time he had worked towards, had finally arrived. 

As he gasped for air, my tummy filled with butterflies.  I noticed the pressure of teardrops building up in the corner of his eyes, so much so it brought a lump in my throat.  I had to look away; the only direction to gaze into was up towards the sky.  The sun penetrated my eyes and made me feel uncomfortable.  I felt hot and sweaty, frustrated to be blinded by the brightness of the sun.  I decided to touch my shiny nose to distract the overwhelming emotions that were running through my veins.  The heaviness in my throat felt tough, I had to ignore it.  I held my breath, but that wasn’t working, so I altered my posture and continued by desperately filling my chest with air, hoping that it would make me look sturdier and stronger.  I told myself: “No tear was going to hit those rosy cheekbones of mine.” 

I felt elated and special to have a dad like him, but I also felt embarrassed and slightly guilty for attenuating earlier on in the week something that meant so dearly to him.  I was unsure of what he was going to say next, but the very few words that followed his tender lips, still to this day clearly echo through my head:  “I may not have spent a lot of money, nor am I the best talker in the world, but I would like to give you this pendant because I need you to know that when times are difficult and you think you are all alone, there will always be at least one other person wanting to bear that cross with you.”  Papa turned to Karl; his hand lifted towards his chest. 

It was only then that he found it appropriate to open up his fist.  Within we discovered a golden, rather enduring-looking cross.  The cross itself was masculine in appearance; its golden outer-edges were filled with a hint of midnight blue.  The strength of blue did not fade to the background but was emphasised by the symbol of the crucifixion - a reminder of pain; tremendous hardship endured by the one person that the bible recognises as the Son of God.  Karl grabbed his hand, thanked him and hugged him.  There was a moment of silence.  We all needed a few seconds to compose ourselves. 

My dad then found the courage to turn to me, his eldest female offspring.  I felt the worst was over.  He looked back in his bag and fiddled about.  This time he found what he needed within seconds.  “As if by magic, out came a perfect, silver-looking rose-shaped pendant.”  The gift in itself was not a rare item of jewellery, but, “The significance he had created at that particular moment in my life, is a rock the family needs to build upon.”