White Roses by C.L. Chick
Read time: ~ 2 minutes

 Diego ran a nervous hand through his wavy hair. “There are so many options,” he said, peering at the florist’s website. He turned to his best friend, Asher, who sat next to him at the computer. “What am I supposed to pick? I don’t know what to pick,” he said, with a note of desperation.

“It’s okay. Whatever you choose will be great,” Asher said, his tone calm and reassuring.

“But what if she doesn’t like what I pick?”

“She will. I promise you she will.”

Diego wished he could be so confident. He turned back to the screen and clicked to the next page.

“White roses?” he mused to himself, his mouse hovering over the first image. “White roses,” he repeated, almost in a whisper. He turned to Asher. “White roses,” he said, with conviction.

“Good choice. And you sound certain.”

He nodded. “I am. I- I just needed a minute to think. My head is so messed up right now.”

“I know. That’s normal.”

“It is?”

“It is. Totally common.”

“Right. Right.” He caught himself with his thumbnail in his mouth. Dammit. He’d broken that habit years ago. He jerked his hand away and focused on placing the order.

#

The following day, he stood in front of his full-length mirror, his hands trembling as he straightened his tie. He turned to the side. I can’t believe I still fit in this suit. It had been forever since he wore it. Cousin Milo’s wedding. The whole family spent hours dancing and laughing. It was the last time they were all together.

He appraised himself in the suit for the sixth time. Mom said I looked sharp that day. He ran a hand across his jaw. But she made me shave. He turned to the bathroom adjacent his room.

Only one cut. Not bad considering his trembling hands.

Grabbing his cufflinks from the dresser, he glanced at the clock and his heart sped up. Not long now. He lowered his clammy hands to wipe them on his pants, but reminded himself that he’d better not.

A few hours later and he stood frozen before her, about ten feet away, with a lump in his throat and a single white rose in his hand. He forced himself to take the first step toward her, and then the next, and the next, until he peered down at her.

She looked different now. Too much make-up. Too fake-looking. But it was her. He couldn’t deny that. He forced a smile as he brushed her hair back. But the smile didn’t last, and he wouldn’t be able to keep up appearances much longer.

He placed the rose on the sleek mahogany that covered her lower half, then bent to kiss her forehead. “I love you, Mom. And I miss you already.”