It was yet dark, yet I bolted upright.
Work calls, and I must obey.
Today marks my return to the Morning Watch- my church's prayer group.
And then it's off to breakfast with the venerable Pastor Leung and the CG.
Oh, I was a tad intimidated, being around that pastor from chinese service.
He looks severe, and I don't think I've ever seen him smile before this.
So that's why I kept out of his way in the past
Readers, I was wrong. I mistook deadpan humour for strictness.
He is one of the funniest men in the ministry,
And there's no end to the funny anecdotes and jokes we shared over breakfast.
However, the smiles and the laughter must soon end.
I was to go observe and assist the pastors at the funeral.
Yes, you read correctly. I said fun-eral.
It was kind of numbed and routine about it.
Nod mutely at the grieving relatives, shake some hands
Take some notes, look sharp and contemplative, yes yes.
And then, the trigger. A pink rose pressed into my hand.
No. Not a rose, please, it hurts, it hurts so much.
Because I remember, I remember too clearly- the last time I held a rose.
I was walking near Bukit Bintang plaza. It was Valentine's eve.
Saw the rose, thought she might like it, and without a thought, bought it.
It was red, and cold, and alive.
As soon as I got back to the room, it started to show signs of decay.
Just like our love, falling apart. A petal here, a petal there.
The rot set in. I tried to save it. I chucked it in the fridge.
ALL THINGS DIE. I was back at the crematorium.
The rose still had a thorn, it pricked me. I did not bleed. Not outside.
I couldn't save my rose, and like all things, it died.
It was dead when I pressed it into her reluctant palm,
as dead as the body laid in state in front of me.
And a tear formed and threatened to run down my cheek
I held it in check, it was not proper. I must be strong.
She left with the dead rose, and the dead love
And my dead heart refused to remember the dead joys.
The dead memories were buried, all nicely, with a headstone.
Jon's heart. RIP 2013. So long and thanks for all the fish.
Until the moment the pink rose was pressed into my palm
I cringed, I looked away. No, this rose is dying too.
It was alive, but it started dying as soon as it was severed from the bush.
All things die, and so does this rose. No exceptions.
This is my new life, I remembered. No more dark days.
No more memories that condemn me to sorrow.
No more love, and I laid the pink rose upon the wooden casket.
I turned away and prayed that I may never ever
Have a love as dead as that rose with a single thorn
No, let me die knowing that love that is Undying.
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