by Jasper Xu

"Welcome home," said Mother.

She seared the dark red ground beef patties and wrapped sliced French noodles on a plate. My father took off his green hat, which was full of holes, and hung his muddy and dark-red stained coat on a hanger with his wings and tattered feathers. His face was glazed and serious, and although he had been that way since he changed jobs a few months ago, I could see that he was particularly depressed today, as if he had aged 20 years.

“Abigail is 14 years old, isn't she?” Father asked Mother.

“This is the fourth time you've repeated this question this week,” I shouted. I sat down at the dining table, and the old oak chairs shook.

“Oh, I'm sorry, Abigail.”

“What is the red spot on your coat?”  I asked my father.

He did not answer, but walked quickly to my mother, dragged her with his wings into the bedroom, and closed the door.

Although there was a wall between us, I could still faintly hear their conversation because the wall was in disrepair.

“Today Officer Eagle said.....Things are getting more urgent... The age limit is exactly 14...Just tomorrow...I'm afraid for us pigeons...” my father said.

When they left to meet, I asked again, “What is the red spot on your coat？”

“Huh? Ow, this is... This may be… I accidentally rubbed the roadside roses. Your favourite… Next time, I will pick some for you,” my father said.

“Yes, roses are my favourite. You must help me pick some tomorrow.”

The rest of the dinner was solemn and silent.

The next day, the third day, the fourth day.

He left the next morning, and I never saw my father again.

It occurred to me that there were never red roses around my house.

Jasper Xu’s “The Rose” received fourth place in the BCPW’s 2024 Flash Fiction Contest. Jasper attends Fort Erie International Academy.