"How are you?”

That’s my husband. He’s on the phone. He’s in LA, where it’s the afternoon and  sunny and warm.


That’s me. I’m in London. It’s late here and it’s cold and raining.

“Okay, what’s the matter?” he asks.


“Well, you’re calling me in the middle of the night and you don’t sound too  good.”


“Have you been listening to sad songs?”


“For fuck’s sake, have you been listening to fucking Nana Mouskouri again?”


The Rose. On repeat.”


“I’ve told you about that song. It’s your personal, go-to Song of Devastation.”

“I know.”

“The Rose is actually full of hope, she just sings it sad.”

“Like you do.”

“Listen, promise me you won’t play that song anymore and go to sleep.”

“One more time.”

“All right, but I’m staying on the phone.”

“Thanks, babe.”

We listen to the song.

“Actually, it’s pretty fucking sad.” That’s him.

“I know. I told you.” That’s me.


The Rose

Some say love, it is a river
That drowns the tender reed
Some say love, it is a razor
That leaves your soul to bleed
Some say love, it is a hunger
An endless aching need
I say love, it is a flower
And you its only seed

It's the heart afraid of breaking
That never learns to dance
Its the dream afraid of waking
That never takes the chance
It's the one who won't be taken
Who cannot seem to give
And the soul afraid of dying
That never learns to live

When the night has been too lonely
And the road has been too long
And you think that love is only
For the lucky and the strong
Just remember in the winter
Far beneath the bitter snows
Lies the seed that with the sun's love
In the spring becomes the rose

Written by Amanda McBroom