Out of breath on the kitchen floor, staring at his cane across the room, he swore he’d seen a woman walk towards the sink with fresh flowers in hand. He took off running, but just as he neared the counter, she vanished once again. He glanced around the room with a hopeless expression on his pale wrinkled face. Every thought he could gather of her darted through his head all at once. Her blonde curly hair piled on her shoulders and trickled around the outline of her face; when she laughed little lines popped up by her lips. He thought about how that old ceramic flower on a dainty chain around her neck brought out the green in her eyes, and remembered the day he got it for her back when they were young enough to call themselves kids. A single tear left the corner of his eye, hesitated for a minute on the wiry frame of his glasses, then dropped into the folds of his sweater. He looked longingly at the place he last saw it- much like his beloved Rose.
The next morning, the aging man awoke in his bed, and reached out, searching for the warm frame of his wife. His fingers stretched for a moment, longing for the most welcoming touch he ever knew, but when they weren’t met with any feeling but cold air his failing eyes split open and he wrenched his neck to the side. Just as his reach wasn't met with her touch, his gaze wasn't met with her smile- his gaze was met with an empty space from his side all the way to the wall. He sat up straight and grabbed his glasses. The bathroom was empty and the light was off. The door was still closed and the window was still open. She had never gotten up first since the day they were married- next to him every morning for the past 68 years. But now she left no trace, so where was she? Everything was where she left it every night; glasses on the table, robe on the bedpost, book by the lamp, window open for air, door shut for safety. She always was paranoid, maybe one of her fears had finally gotten to be too much, but where would she have gone to escape it? He always thought he’d be enough to make her feel safe, but then the one terrifying explanation to make the whole situation worse crossed his mind as a look of horror crossed his face- she’d left him. If he couldn't keep the monsters out of her head, he figured she was gone to find someone who could.
“Rose?” he called. His body tensed in panic as he started for the door. He slung it open and called for her again. Silence. He rushed through the upstairs rooms trying to find a hint of where she’d gone.
Once he decided upstairs was thoroughly torn apart and searched, he headed downstairs as fast as his old little feet could take him.
“Rose? My dear?!” he shouted. His face still looked horrified as sweat began to bead down his neck. He caught his reflection in the glass of a picture frame and stopped dead in his tracks. His face looked much older than he remembered- by a few years- and his hair was far too thin much like his skin. The photo was of a young couple, dressed to the nines in black and white- a wedding. He immediately recognized the pair as he and his wife- her younger self was the only way he remembered of her- he couldn't picture her aged and sickly.
His head whipped around when he caught a glimpse of a curl flutter around a corner headed for the front door. “Rose! Wait honey, don’t go! You're safe here with me, I swear to you!” he shouted as tears began to well up in his eyes. He shuffled to the door and ripped it open, only to find the curl and the beautiful head it should’ve been on long gone. He was confronted by a yard covered in dying rose bushes. Every square inch was covered with petals in red, white, and a blackish red that made the grass look like it was covered in blood. Then the tears began to fall. He didn't know where this garden came from. He always said he’d plant a rose garden if he had to live without his own Rose- didn’t want to know what it would be like to go on without a Rose in his life- but had no recollection of planting it himself.
As the sun sank, his crumpling body trudged back into the house and settled into his recliner. He reached for two letters on the end-table, both addressed to him. One was a letter from his doctor- rambling on about dementia and alzheimer's. He dismissed this, telling himself he was too young and healthy to worry about memory loss. The second caught his eye- “To my love, from your Rose” the scrolling characters read across the tattered paper. The single line on the flipside captured his mind, as he tried to figure out all of the things it could possibly mean. “Roses are red, Violets are blue, My love I’m afraid, That your mind deceives you.”
The next morning, the aging man awoke in his bed, and reached out, searching for the warm frame of his wife. His fingers stretched for a moment, longing for the most welcoming touch he ever knew.
These past few years I’ve watched every day as my husband wakes up with no memory of where I've gone, panics, and wastes his whole day nearly killing himself trying to find me in this house which has become a prison to his own mind. He hallucinates that I’m here, or maybe he catches a reflection of my wispy figure. I think seeing him in this constant pain would kill me- if I weren't already dead.