The Rose from Sharon

And as they discussed the dissertation of life’s journeys, there was no way that the tears could not help but fall from their eyes.  It was as if some eternal flame had been awakened that had been lying dormant after that incident.  For awhile, no one seemed able to get through to her.  It was something that was unquestionably precious to her -- a thing that was taken away from her most familiar past.  But it had not been erased from the annals of eternity.

Somehow, it made an appearance that plainly seemed as if the heavens had chosen to shut its gates without listening to another soul’s petition.  They felt compelled to think that not another prayer needed to be prayed.  Wise counsel needed to be sought, but no one knew into which corner to look.

Time had discouraged him to the point to where trying to lift himself out of the muck and mire had him spent.  It was more labor than the soul could withstand.  He simply dropped into an abyss more harrowing than that fiery cave.  He looked at a few options that might help him see the God-given side of his known abilities.  Still, a crucible had been established long before he grew fully aware of its outcomes and consequences.

If only he could touch the ground that made his forefathers see heaven’s grace, in spite of the iron that was heaved upon their backs, he could then know that a new day’s dawn did, in fact, exist.

“Can’t nobody make me see the light.  I will see it when I’m ready to see it and no time sooner!” he said.  He had come to the conclusion that feeling down and out was the norm in a life, until divinity came in and made its mark.  The him was Jesse Johnson.  The her, Rose Johnson.  The year, 1971.  She was a freshman.  He was a junior and a star sprinter on the track team.

Her father, the Deacon Rufus Johnson, was strict on her, but made allowances for himself.  He saw how quickly his little girl had blossomed.  Undoubtedly, he had determined within his own heart to guard her innocence.  He used the power that the good Lord had bestowed upon his six-foot-two, two hundred and thirty-one pound frame.  He was given

a particular strength, even at fifty-three.

Rose would talk for hours on the phone, until her mother’s voice would request to “cut it short now.”  She was attractive, bearing a strong resemblance to her mother, Della.  They both possessed a light pecan complexion, with eyes the color of rich sable, hair the color of mocha brown.  It had a fine, soft texture and they both wore it past their shoulders.  Rose’s musical pleasure was Diana Ross and the Supremes (the early years), Smokey, Gladys Knight, The Stylistics, The Delphonics, and The Carpenters.  The Carpenters?

She’d sit in the solitude of her room with the door closed on Saturday afternoons and listen to the Carpenters’ Close to You.  She loved the verse that stated,

On the day that you were born, the angels got together and decided to create a dream come true.  So they sprinkled moondust in your hair of gold, sunlight in your eyes of blue.

The song went on further, glorifying the duty of this fictional demi-god.  The song would make one think of their own high school sweetheart and the elusiveness of a love everlasting.  So often when she would play that song, she would lie in her bed, with its pink cotton covers, and think of the saddest song that she could sing at the hint of a whisper.  While lying there, she would cry herself to sleep on the strength of self-appointed sympathy.

While lying there, she would figure out her algebra, be intrigued by Shakespeare and become engrossed in sociology.  Yet she would always get distracted when she heard the tremendous roar of the trains as they went by.  This distraction was a constant, whether it was in the evening, morning or late at night.