Rosemary and Rue

She grew up here, and yet the house feels so unfamiliar now - a place held together by bittersweet memories. This was meant to be their sanctuary of shared promises.

Photo by Eric Dekker on Unsplash

They had married just last year after a tempestuous courtship that felt like it was written in the stars.

He had loved her with an all-consuming feverish intensity, going above and beyond to promise her almost all the holy vows of heaven - to Mars, the moon, and the stars.

To him, she was a treasure snatched from the very hands of fate - a prize that felt like his alone. For she is his, and he is hers, in a world newly made.

With his consent to return to her hometown, he gave her the deepest of joys; they settled into her father's wedding gift, prepared to start their journey of life together.

The cats have been darting through the rooms with such ease, as if this house had been their personal playground all along.

She pictured this house as the hallowed ground where they would raise their future children. She spent hours in the garden, just outside their kitchen, tilling the soil of her imagination as she pictured them growing their own food together.

Her mind was already mapping out the nursery, filling the empty room with the hope of their future dreams.

For those first few months, they were anchored in the sheer bliss of their honeymoon, living in a rhythm of happy days.

Everything felt idyllic being with her husband; she found a sense of purpose in the quiet service of taking care of him.

Her bounty was as boundless as the sea - the more she gave, the more she seemed to have, as if her spirit were a battery that never drained, forever full and infinite.

She cherished their morning ritual. There was a profound, quiet joy in the small acts: the breakfast she prepared, the tie she chose, the clothes she laid out with the devotion of someone who had everything she ever wanted.

She poured herself into making the house a home, finding a steady cadence in her reading, needlework and decorating.

Her signature was now in every nook, a tangible trace of her devotion. She had curated every corner, transforming the house into their private love nest.

She didn't mind one bit when the fine dust from that labor made her allergic; it was a small price to pay for such happiness.

She hummed as she went around the house with her chores, with the carefree spirit her youth.

Being back meant she was closer to her father. She was especially close to him despite everything that had happened; he had been her rock since she had faced the worst case scenario- the passing of her mother years ago.

He was the one who had rolled up his sleeves for the renovation, restoring the old place so that she might find comfort within its walls.

He even spent an entire weekend painting the front door wisteria - her favorite color.

For him, it wasn't just about aesthetics; it was a silent prayer for her to have an enduring marriage.

He wanted her to have that living fragment of her mother's spirit there to greet her, and he refused to make her wait for the slow turn of the seasons to grow them from seed. So, he transferred the fully grown plants from his own garden.

He planted them on either side of the door so that every time she came home, the scent of remembrance from the rosemary and grace from the rue rose to meet her with settled warmth and memories.

Beyond the threshold, the wisteria tree stood proud with its twisted, sprawling limbs arching over the path like a silent guardian.

She had inherited her mother's beautiful voice, a talent that could have seen her on different trajectory had not for the abrupt transfer of school.

Several times a week, her father would come bearing the ingredients for her favorite meals. The air would soon swell with their singing, the two of them harmonizing over the hiss of the pans.

Those songs were a way to share the stories of the woman they both missed, his wife and her mother. The house is now filled with a sense of love and warmth of a family made whole.

©Britt H.

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