La rosa amarilla

In a world of red roses, be a yellow rose.

She’s nineteen when he gives her the first yellow rose. He’s 21, uncertain, hesitant. He leaves it in the tiny nook under the waiting shed roof, walks to her apartment, doubles back and retrieves the rose.

She has always known he loves her, but not that kind of love. And she loves him too, but not that kind of love. And when, with the third or fourth yellow rose, he tells her he’s in love with her, she tells him she loves him, but not that way. He’s hurt (he’s twenty-one, of course he’s hurt!) and he keeps his distance. She wonders if she’s been too harsh (“frogs may grow feathers, but I will never love you that way”). Still, she misses him.

But true friends always find their way back, no matter how many times they get lost. And they do, time and time again. Through new loves and heartaches, paths crossed and distances traversed, they always find a home with each other. And with each visit comes a yellow rose. When the physical distance stretches wider, he sends her snapshots of the yellow roses from his garden.

The yellow rose has become their own language; not of romance, but of something steadier, rarer. A friendship that is exactly that way.