Dew-drenched Rose

It was a long time ago, but I still remember the day she came to live with us, my aunt, a young widow. Everybody called her Rosy, maybe because she had pink cheeks, her real name nobody mentioned. My sister and I became her instant fans, not because she was such a beauty, we adored her for the way she treated us. She was so caring, so loving, the reason I now understand, she found in us her unborn children. In the evening after she finished her chores, she would tell us stories, she heard from her soldier husband, stories of the lands he had gone, of the battles he had fought and won. Tiny dew drops of tear shined in the corner of her eyes, as she told why the soldier didn’t return home. A sense of pride flashed, remembering her husband in those stories, where she found him come alive. In the gleam of the twilight hour, her lively face glowed like a flower in the crimson caress of the setting sun, and we saw aunt Rosy turn into a dew-drenched rose.