Photo ©Natashia Goertzen, Natashia’s Photos

Mrs. Rose Edwards ©2018 RD Girvan

That door wasn’t there yesterday, was it? I may be all muddled again, but I think not… These new buildings do mix me up. I don’t have any streetlights, any street signs – any signposts – any – any – signs upon my door, so it can be difficult to tell. Which is the way out, and which is the way home.
I can find my way to luncheon, but when it’s time to refund my room, I simply can’t renegotiate, I can’t return. Anyway, lunch was nice, delicious. A new man joined us, sat down right beside me. Quite forward! The lady across the table from me knew him well, but he only had eyes for me. His wedding band was rather like mine, too, but when I pointed out that we matched, he made an odd sort of snuggling – spooning – sobbing noise and turned away from me. He tried to make up for his rudeness later by escorting me to my room, but still, I was slightly annoyed.
I could have an assistant, like that nice sad man. Perhaps a desk – an armoire – a secretary – yes! a secretary, to help me along. We could have tea, they could gently show me the way so I could remember. Then I could keep, from one day to the next, my reason, my raison d’etre, my residence – my home. Yes, my home.
Maybe I could find a nice picture that I liked a great deal and put it on my door. Then, when I am worrying – hurrying – scurrying along all the hallways, I could see the sign and know, this is it, this is my room.
Like this photograph here, on this door. This forget-me-not – this mum – this rose. Yes, a rose! My rose.