Roses

How many deaths does it take to get to heaven? If someone told me five years back that I’d never left—but no, I needed more dying. I had to play one more kind of fool and step off another cliff, with a different-colored rose in my teeth. Even upon impact, in the midst of the latest shattered role, Love was the only thing that ever made sense. I’d find myself somehow resurrected, walking the path to the top of the next ridge, tasting a thorny stem. Again. Last time, the fall was so long as I looked from the edge, I just knew it went straight to hell. I wanted to sit forever with the view in sharp relief and a dead flower for companionship. Grace had other ideas. I swear I was pushed. The fall was so long that I had time to do somersaults and twists and a complete review of many lives. I had time to catch myself in surrender, even before my sudden landing in your arms, my rose safe in your teeth beneath your laughing eyes.