Two Roses

A different kind of transgender tale

By Melanie E.

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"That'll be two fifty, sir."

I smile as I pay the florist, taking the two long-stemmed roses. It's a ritual we've long shared, he and I; one I repeat annually.

One rose is for the woman I fell in love with, so long ago. Beautiful, smart, witty, and energetic, from the moment I spotted her across campus she was the only girl I could see. Even though I lost her years ago, I still thought about her every day, and every time I looked into our daughter's eyes I see that same vibrant joy and life.

The other rose is for the man I love. It took so long for me to accept, for our children to understand, but in the end first forgiveness, then acceptance, and finally that same love, was inevitable. It was, after all, those same eyes, that same smile, and the same spirit I'd fallen in love with years before. The laugh might be different, and the shape, but it was the same person.

Two roses; one for the woman I loved, the other for the man she became, and who still held my heart.

As is our routine, I turn around, take two steps away, then present the roses to the florist again. There's that smile, those crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

"Happy anniversary, honey."

"You too, hon."

We still get the occasional odd looks from customers when we kiss across the counter, and the expected gagging sounds from our teenage daughter, now working part-time in the shop, but like everything else those fade away in the kiss.

@--\-------

Because wives aren't the only ones can continue to love.

Melanie E.