We don’t think much about the rose once the little prince leaves her behind…
We get distracted by all the things he does then, but what about her?
People often thinks of her as waiting for the little prince to come back, but only the reader knows that a time will come when he will want to come back. When they say good bye, they mean it forever.
He can leave, even when it means to abandon his own planet, his princedom, his heart. But she can’t. She is a foreigner, but her roots exist only in that ground; a little, limited and unadventurous world, but the one that gives her life, the one in which he has his home. And, being small, this world is not exempt of dangers: she can’t sweep the volcanoes, or pull out the baobab’s sprouts, or protect herself from the cold…
For her own nature of rose, for everything that makes her meaningful and wonderful, she can’t move from where she is: a ridiculous virtue in the eyes of any adult.
In spite of all this, she doesn’t try to stop the little prince. She stays knowing he will never come back, because the way he is leaving has no way back; knowing that no one else will ever come… What an amazing courage she shows then! What a loneliness to shine and perfume an empty planet…
To exist rooted in an abandoned heart must be like if the sky has lost all the stars.
The rose is enigmatic… In the eyes of the little prince - when he still doesn’t understand her- she seems whimsical, but we are never told what’s in her mind. In spite of her fragility, she has such strength that she is the underlying reason of every move the little prince makes. And when he runs away, she takes all the blame on her. Even when it is not true, as the little prince can’t love her right because, in a way, he takes her as a “something”… What a disdain in his words for her in the rose garden of Earth!
I painted this thinking of this loneliness of the rose.
An active witness of the immense emptiness that is the absence of the one who filled everything with sense. Forever. Ephemeral, but standing upright, naked, with her four thorns, facing the abysmal immensity of an universe that is like and empty bottomless pit. And somewhere, him, abandoning her in present continuous. People don’t talk enough about the rose, but must be because there are no words. Just, maybe… butterflies.
Until next time.