Casida of the Rose

Alejandro paced and fumed. He had waited in the garden each day, dressed in his hand-embroidered finery, but she did not come. He had sent letters expressing his wishes. “Meet me in the garden to accept my proposal,” he instructed the woman. “Come give us your blessing,” he told the priest. His explicit instructions for time and location should have been clear. But no one was ever there to meet him.

Mateo paused his flower planting, leaned on his shovel and looked the aging grandee up and down. His handsome face seemed to be laughing, but he respectfully asked, “Are you looking for someone?”

“Rosalita. My bride to be.”
“Perhaps she is not interested.”

Alejandro gestured to his clothes, his fancy shoes, his fingers covered in gold and silver rings. “Of course she is interested. Every woman is interested. But I chose her.” His colorful clothes and his vanity reminded Mateo of a peacock. The smell of his hair pomade nearly overpowered the delicate garden scents of orange blossoms, roses and sun-warmed earth.

“Weren’t you here yesterday?”
“Yes. And every day this week. Still, she will come.”

“Look,” cried Mateo, in great excitement. “I see a gilt-edged carriage drawn by a lively white horse. The woman with the whip is very beautiful, and she’s heading this way.”

“My Rosalita!” Alejandro started to move forward to greet her, but she jumped from the carriage and ran to Mateo.

“Go wash up, you adorable lout. We have a wedding to plan.”

“Perhaps you should read more poetry,” Mateo told Alejandro, as he wiped the dirt from his hands and plucked a perfect Seville Rose, paraphrasing his favorite Lorca Casida.

The rose
Was not searching for gold and silver.
Almost eternal on her branch,
She was looking for something else.

He grinned, wove the fragrant peach-colored bloom into Rosalita’s dark hair, and gave the poem a new ending. “She was searching for me.”

Alejandro never returned to the garden, and refused to attend the wedding.
No one noticed his absence.