Rowan's Dreams

“Hold my hands, baby. Nothing will happen — trust me…”

I whispered, filled with a quiet peace, closing my eyes to the clouds.

“Promise me we’ll rise to the sky.”

The police would be flooding in any moment now,

and before it all ended,

I wanted to hear my most impossible dreams

spill from between his delicate lips.

“We’ll fly a kite at the edge of the sea,

we’ll ride a carousel with the joy of children,

screaming with laughter,

while giving each other freesia flowers…”

I drew a deep breath.

“Freesia means innocence. Did you know?”

A bittersweet smile lingered on his lips now.

His eyes, though, did not believe my words.

He didn’t believe…

He didn’t believe we would make it out.

But that was not what I wanted to hear from him.

“Even when you smile,

there’s the bitter taste of unripe quince, medlar, or rowan in it.”

I hadn’t known my voice would tremble so —

not while looking straight

into the heart of his brown eyes.

“I read it in a book once.”

The wail of sirens told me

we didn’t have much time left.

Not crying —

not breaking into the wild,

childlike sobs that pressed at my throat —

was almost unbearable.