Flowers of Winter

Ruskin’s book went unfinished, his mug beneath the sink went uncleaned and every night Roo left the porch light on for his return but the front door never opened. Roo sat alone in her small home.

She imagined one day leaving their first dwelling to something bigger where the pitter-patter of young feet dashed across the floorboards and tiny hands helped Roo, a growing mother, mix a chocolate cake. She imagined looking at herself in the mirror and wondering where the years went and where the extra weight came from. She imagined Ruskin telling her that she was beautiful no matter what, always beautiful because she was his Roo, his wonderful garden that he had the joy of watching flourish. Roo imagined that instead of helping girls into wedding dresses she’d be slipping into one herself, walking down an aisle, looking onto Ruskin’s handsome, rugged face.

But Roo had waited for Ruskin to return home for months. She lay in bed for days and ate nothing, drank only water, as she realised Ruskin was gone. She vomited up sadness and wondered if her heart was slowing falling out, bit by bit until she passed from grief. She pitied herself for believing he was there with her when in fact he had been buried beneath the earth the whole time. When she finally climbed from her bed at noon on a Thursday, she found her reflection in the mirror and wept at the sight. She was a monster. Ruskin wasn’t there to tell her she was beautiful, even in her young age when beauty was at its peak.

Roo took the mug from beneath the sink and cleaned it dry, setting it back in its place. The book beside the bed she closed and sat on top of a pile in the corner of the room. That night the light stayed off on the front porch and she didn’t hope for Ruskin’s return. She fell asleep in sadness and knew Ruskin would never be there beside her again. She cried at the realisation that he was gone and she was insane and incredibly, intolerably alone.