All the inductees looked curiously onwards. Our hosts warned us that many of them still had their thorns, and that we’d need to be careful. That turned some people off to the idea, but I was personally excited by the news. Hearing they had thorns equated to these being wild plants. Flowers that couldn’t be tamed by man and that still kept their bite after being trimmed. That was a fun and dangerous idea, and ecstatic glee spread across my face.

A few puzzled looks later and I was now the proud owner of a red rose. The flower held that alluring red all roses are known for, but each new petal displayed a different shade. Reminiscent of someone trying on different shades of lipstick to see which one fit. Or better yet, which one didn’t. It wanted to be unpredictable. I admired that.

Of course, one would be insulting the rose if they were to say its rouge was the only surprise it had in store. The scent contained velvety hints of wine and sapphire. Cool. Crisp. Coagulated. The thorns weren’t sharp but were obtuse and jutting out. The real thorns were hidden just underneath its petals. Much sharper than the bright red edges of the stem. 

What really caught me off guard though was the texture. Most would consider flowers soft, and this was definitely true for the rose, but it could also feel sort of firm and scratchy if you caressed in the right places. The petals were gentle, but also ticklish if they caught you off guard. The underside of the bulb was hard. Not like a rock, but not like a flower either. You could knock on it. You could wallop someone on the head with it. You could dance to hell and back with it resting in your breast pocket.

After the induction ceremony, I treated the rose to dinner. We sat apart from each other as I ate and they photosynthesized. Me and that rose continued to do silly things like that for the next couple of days. I had to bid them adieux whenever I went to classes, but then I’d come home and we’d pick up as if we never left off. We’d walk around campus together. We did homework together. I wanted to spend all the time I could with this rose while it was still fresh.

More than that though, I think I just liked having a companion that was so pretty. I’ve never had a symbol quite so elegant and sophisticated on my person adding a touch of the aesthete to my demeanor. Some may call me overdramatic, but I swear as I carried this rose with me in my right hand all throughout the day, I got more looks and compliments from people than ever before. Both me and my rose loved the attention. We barely had time to notice the black smirks forming on the edge of the petals.

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I’ve longed for a companion ever since I was a boy. I tried to find one with the neighborhood kids, but they were much more active than me. They spent every day in the woods behind our cul-de-sac, racing each other and climbing trees. It was quite literally hard to keep up after a while. It was around that time that I acquired a stuffed giraffe. He was small and easy to carry, so I wound up carrying him everywhere out of habit. Before long, he was given a name: Giraffey. We went everywhere together. We watched TV together. We played computer games together. We went outside together. I want to say that we didn’t go to the restroom together, but I know myself a little too well. We busied away the hours on our own, chatting about all of the things I was too shy to say to other kids. All the fears I held and the jokes I’d been saving. They all went to my one and only confidant.

I didn’t feel like that again until high school carpentry class. In the second week, the instructor taught us about measurements and how to keep track of them while we worked. He correctly assumed that we were too stupid to follow along without some kind of visual aid, so he cut out each of us a 2x4 plank of wood and had us mark all the measurements on it.

I quickly found myself enamored by this little plank. It was small and compact, but also long enough to hold with two hands. It felt like a tool. Like an artifact. Like something you equipped for the last stage. The width was just small enough for me to wrap one hand tightly around it, like the ribboned edge of a baseball bat waiting to be swung. No one else brought their 2x4s the following class, nor did the teacher mention them. I brought it again the next day, and again nothing happened. The same when I brought it the day after that, and then every day that next week, and then every week that month.

By the end of August, I was well aware that there was no assignment and no reason to have him with me anymore, but I didn’t care. This board was mine. It was something I had imprinted on. Its grainy surface smoothed as my fingers weathered it. The corners receded as my fingernails softened them. The yellowish tint of freshly cut wood paled with the sunlight and the air. They never complained about the marks they grew with age. They were my own personal trooper, battling through those confusing school days with me.

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I knew from the start that the rose would eventually rot and die in my hands. The only thing I could do was watch as the petals started to crumple up at the edges and turn black. As the leaves began to dry and crack. As the green of the stem began to turn brown. As the bulb began to droop and sag. As the petals became loose and floppy and began to lose their scent. The rose tried to stay strong for my sake, but we both knew what was to come.

It was the first companion of mine to ever decompose and die, but the other ones didn’t exactly get better fates. Giraffey was replaced with a soft, green Scooby Doo plush. And then somewhere over the years, long after I had grown sick of stuffed animals, that Scooby plush disappeared, while Giraffey was still right where I left him. The 2x4 from my high school disappeared as well. My father, still under the impression that I carried it expecting an assignment, occasionally asked when the teacher was going to get on with it. Too embarrassed to tell him I held onto the board because I liked it, me and the board parted ways in November of that year. I had it in a safe place for a while, but then it disappeared one day after Mom cleaned my room.

It’s odd really, how so many of my sidekicks are either worn down to rubbish and abandoned or thrown in a closet somewhere. Though of course, you could argue that a similar fate awaits every relationship out there, whether it be a pet, friend, or soulmate. It might not hit us for a while, if at all, but every relationship we build now is only going to end sooner or later, whether it be through losing touch or through the final curtain call that awaits us all one day. Does that mean you’re going to stop making new friends? Never.

There’s nothing in this world I treasure more than a kind soul. If anyone ever gives me an ounce of warmth or friendliness, I’ll hold them in my heart forever. Whether it be a smiling giraffe waiting at the bottom of the moving box, strange measurements on the side of a board Dad used for a birdhouse, or the stem of a rose displayed on the kitchen counter. It has long since lost its flower, and its skin is dry and brittle from age, but it still stands up regardless. Always facing the sun. Always eager to chat. Always trying to catch someone’s eye. My partner in crime, even after they have left my side.