I never knew anyone like Anthony. He had an aura about him. Anthony radiated peace and quiet confidence that is so rare in these fast, modern times. I've heard it said there are angels that walk amongst us. I believe this to be true and Anthony was one of these angels.

Anthony was the love of my life.

I was twenty-three, swept up in the modern world. I knew what clothes to wear, what words to say, what music to listen to, what movies to see. My job as assistant curator at the local museum was busy and I had my own apartment overlooking a nearby river. I had a constant circle of friends and spent nearly every evening on the town with them, encountering men who I would date later in the week.

I was living a lie.

Despite the success in my life, my friends and my job, I felt unhappy, unfulfilled. At night, I would sit by my window and stare out at the darkness, wondering if this was what I dreamed of when I was younger. Why was I so restless? Was this the life I wanted or was I simply going through the motions of an empty existence?

On my way home each day, I would pass by Anthony who knelt in the garden at the front of his house, digging in the dirt, wearing a plaid shirt and blue jeans. His long, dark hair brushed the tops of his shoulders and curled slightly. His eyes were dark, a deep shade of brown. There was something about him. Whenever I walked by, I slowed and watched as he moved about the garden, concentrating on his task.

In summer, Anthony's roses bloomed, the most beautiful roses I had ever seen. My father had grown roses in our farm's back garden, but they didn't look at all like Anthony's. Yellow, crimson, coral, deep pink, roses wound about white trellises, the black porch railing, the white picket fence, and wooden arbours. They looked so beautiful, I stopped to look at them. Anthony didn't seem to notice me standing there. He pulled weeds, trimmed bushes and dug in the dirt.

One day, he stood and turned. "They say that roses are the heart of a garden," he said.

"I-I beg your pardon?" I asked, startled to hear him speak.

"The roses," he said. "They're the heart of the garden. They pump life to everything that surrounds them."

"That's a unique observation," I said.

He shrugged.

"Your roses are beautiful," I said. "I've never seen anything like them. How do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"How do you grow such lovely roses?"

He shrugged again. "I don't know, really. I used to plant roses with my grandfather. I simply do what he did." He reached out and fingered the petals of a nearby yellow rose. "You have to love them. Everything grows with love. There's no need for pesticides or fancy soil. All you require is sun, spring rain, earth, and your bare hands. 'Think happy thoughts', that's what my grandfather always told me." He was quiet for a moment. Then he asked, "You stop here often, don't you?

"Uh, yes," I said. "I hope you don't mind."

He shook his head. "No, I don't mind at all. Would you like to take a closer look?"

"I'd love to."

I opened the gate and stepped into the garden. The scent of roses enveloped me. Stepping onto a small wooden bridge in the center of the garden I drew in deep, fragrant breaths.

"I could get drunk on the smell!" I said, closing my eyes.

Anthony stepped closer. "Couldn't you, though? This is what I imagine Heaven is like, filled with roses of every colour, even some colours that we don't have here." He turned to me. "What's your name?"

"Emma. And you're Anthony. I know that already."

"You do? How?"

"This is a small town. Word travels fast. Everyone talks about your roses."

Anthony smiled. "What do you know? I'm famous!" He motioned in the direction of the veranda. "Would you care for a cup of tea?"

"That would be nice, thank you."

I never looked back.

After that day, I stopped by Anthony's after work to sit in his garden, drink tea, and listen to him talk. He was whimsical and imaginative, and I found myself fascinated by everything he said. He seemed to paint a picture with his voice and his ideas. His garden was his life and his life was his garden. His roses were his children. I enjoyed being with Anthony more than anybody else. I found myself making excuses to my friends when they called and hurried from work every day before encountering someone I knew. I did not miss my former life. My friends, my social life, my job at the museum, all dimmed in comparison to Anthony and his garden. I realized I was falling in love with him and the thought exhilarated me. I couldn't wait to see him. Thoughts of him consumed me and brought a wistful smile to my face. I pictured his kind eyes, his soft hair, his gentle manner. He was different from everyone I knew, different in a way that moved and inspired me. Before long, he was all I wanted.

I had to tell him so.

We sat on a bench underneath the rose arbour, drinking tea and revelling in the scent. He wore black jeans with a blue silk shirt. He looked so handsome, I wanted to wrap my arms around him and never let him go.

"Anthony," I said and he turned to face me.

"Yes, Emma?"

"There's something I want to tell you." Impulsively, I reached down and grasped both his hands.

"What's that?" he asked.

I hesitated, unsure if I should go on or not. "I've never told anyone this before," I said. "It's very hard for me." I paused again. "Anthony, these past few weeks have been magical for me. I think, maybe I've always felt this way about you, even back when I'd stop and watch you in your garden. What I want to say is...I think I'm falling in love with you."

"Oh God, please don't say that!" Anthony exclaimed, withdrawing his hands from mine and turning away.

"What?" I asked. "What do you mean?"

Anthony turned back, tears shimmering in his eyes. "I didn't want you to fall in love with me," he said. "Oh, God, I didn't want you to fall in love with me."

"Why?" I asked. "Why?"

He shook his head. "Because I can't love you back. Not that I don't want to. I simply can't."

"I-I don't understand what you're saying."

For the longest moment, he didn't say anything. Then he said, "Emma, I can't love you because I can't promise my love to you forever. I can't do that because...I'm dying."

His words crashed like cold waves on my heart. Tears leapt to my eyes, tears that I angrily swiped away. "You're dying?"

"Yes." He bowed his head and a tear fell into his lap. "I have brain cancer. It's slowly overtaking my body. One by one, my vital functions are shutting down. I'm going to end up in a wheelchair. I won't be capable of loving anyone."

I reviewed his words and threw my arms around his neck. "I don't care!" I declared. "I love you, anyway. Let me take care of you!"

"No." Slowly, he eased my arms away. "I can't let you. I can't. It's not fair to you."

I pulled him close. "I told you, I don't care! I can't just walk away and pretend I never met you. You're in my heart now. I can't simply forget you. Whether we have ten years or a day, it doesn't matter, as long as you love me!" Passionately, I pressed my lips against his, kissing him with all the love I felt for him. He resisted at first, but then he wrapped his arms around me and he returned my kiss. Our tea sat forgotten, the scent of roses surrounded us, stronger than ever.

When we parted, Anthony wept openly. "Emma," he said in a strange voice, "can I look at you?"

"What?"

Anthony reached out and touched my cheek. "Can I look at you?"

I looked into his eyes and was struck by a sudden realization. "My God! You're blind, aren't you?"

He nodded. "I can still see up close but I can't make out colours or details. From afar, I can only see shadows."

"I-I never suspected," I said. "You don't look blind." Then I remembered. "That's why you never looked up when I stopped by your garden. I always thought you were too involved in your work to notice me. You didn't know I was there!"

"I knew you were there," Anthony said. "I recognized your perfume. I sensed your presence." He touched my face with his fingertips. "What colour is your hair?"

"Light brown."

"Your eyes?"

"Blue."

Fresh tears gathered in his eyes as he traced my face with his fingers and hands. Gradually, his touch turned into a caress and his lips covered mine, more hungrily than before. "Take me inside," I said, my lips against his. "Please? Just this once. I need you, Anthony. One night, that's all I ask. In the morning, I'll walk away, if that's what you want."

Anthony moaned deep in his throat and stood, pulling me to my feet. Reaching behind me, he plucked a dark red rose from one of the bushes and brushed my cheek with it before presenting it to me. Taking my hand, he led me inside.

After that first magical night together, Anthony told me I should move on and forget him, reminding me that he could not be with me in the future. I kissed him into silence. For an hour or two, at least, our passion and our bodies were the only two things that mattered.

One rainy Friday afternoon, I found Anthony curled on the stone bench in his garden, shivering, his clothes soaking wet.

"Anthony!" I cried in alarm, running over to him and easing him into a sitting position. "What are you doing? You'll catch a chill! Come inside." Taking his arm, I pulled him to his feet and led him inside where I poured him a hot bath and ordered him into the tub. While I waited, I prepared a mug of hot tea in the kitchen. He joined me a short time later, wearing a brown corduroy robe, his wet hair combed from his face.

"What were you thinking?" I scolded as I handed him his tea. "Why were you laying there in the rain like that, were you trying to catch your death?"

He shrugged and sat down at the table. Sipping his tea, he then lifted his head and turned to face me. "Emma," he said, "I went to the doctor this morning for my monthly physical. He ran some tests and called me this afternoon." He paused and took a deep breath. "He told me the cancer is spreading. It's overtaking my internal organs. He said that I probably won't live six months."

"Oh, God," I said, tears leaping to my eyes. I knelt in front of him, taking his hands. "Is there anything I can do?" Part of me wanted to collapse, sobbing, into his arms. The reasonable, practical part told me to be strong for him, that he was probably scared.

"Anthony?" I said when he didn't speak.

He kept his head bowed as he answered my question. "Yes, Emma, you can help me. There's something I want you to do for me."

"Anything."

He raised his head and stared ahead with a distant expression. "My doctor told me that I have a difficult, painful time ahead. He said I'll eventually end up bedridden, unable to walk or eat or do anything for myself. He said I won't recognize or acknowledge anyone around me, that I won't be able to speak, or even move." For a moment, he was quiet. "Emma," he continued, "I don't want to end up that way. All my life, all I've wanted to do is work in the garden and grow my roses. The thought of laying in bed, motionless, letting my roses die, kills me inside. I can't let that happen."

"If you want me to look after your roses, I will," I said. "It would make me happy to do that for you."

Anthony shook his head. "No. That's not what I want you to do."

"Then, what?" I asked. "What can I do?"

"Emma, I want you to help me, help me not to become that lifeless statue I described. I want you to go to the drugstore and buy me these." He reached into his bathrobe pocket and handed me a bottle.

I stared at it, puzzled. "Sleeping pills?"

Slowly, Anthony nodded. "Could you pick them up for me, please?"

"What are you going to do with them?" I asked, although I suspected I already knew.

"I'm going to save myself."

I was suddenly angry. "Save yourself? By overdosing on sleeping pills?" I jumped to my feet and thrust the bottle back into his hand. "Anthony, how could you do this to me? How could you ask me to help you commit suicide? I love you! Who knows how much time we have left together? Your doctor could be mistaken. You're much stronger than you think you are. You may live longer than he's prognosing."

Anthony shook his head. "No, I don't think so."

I burst into tears and grabbed his shoulders, shaking him. "I won't do it!" I yelled. "I won't! I'm not going to help you die! I want you here with me!"

Sobbing, I ran out of the house, hearing him call after me. Once outside, I stopped running. I stepped onto the small wooden bridge in the center of the garden and looked around at the roses as my breathing slowed. Standing there, I remembered something Anthony had said the day we first met:

"This is how I imagine Heaven to be, filled with roses of every colour, even some colours we don't have here on earth."

Arching my head back, I looked up at the sky, misty rain moistening my face. "Heaven," I whispered and turned back.

Two days later, Anthony and I sat on the stone bench in his garden. Nobody could see us, surrounded by rose bushes. It was a sunny day and the air was warm with just a hint of a soothing breeze. Anthony and I had spent our last night together. We made love until dawn when we drifted off to sleep in each other's arms. For the longest time when I awoke, I watched Anthony as he slept, my vision blurred by tears. He was so beautiful and peaceful. I vowed to retain that vision forevermore.

"Are you ready?" Anthony asked me now, turning to face me.

I nodded, although I knew he could not see me. He reached out his hand and, slowly, I handed him the bottle of sleeping pills that I had purchased.

"Do you know how much I love you?" Anthony said.

"Yes. I love you, too."

"Being with me, helping me this way, it's the greatest gift you could give me," he said. "I'll be eternally grateful to you, even in Heaven. And don't worry about me if you should happen to fall in love with somebody else someday. I want you to move on, settle with somebody special and be happy. Don't condemn yourself to a lifetime of loneliness because of me. I know you love me. I'll always know you love me. And even though we've only been together for a brief time, I feel I've shared a lifetime with you." His voice was so strong, but his words broke my heart.

He reached out with his hand and touched my lips. "Now, let's see a smile." He smiled at me confidently in encouragement.

Weakly, I smiled back, which seemed to satisfy him. He then picked up the glass of water at his side and removed the lid from the pill bottle. "Remember what to tell the paramedics, that you just found me this way."

Speechlessly, I nodded. "Anthony!" I choked out, unable to say more.

He paused. "I know, Emma...I know."

One by one, he downed the entire bottle. "Don't call the ambulance," he said, dropping the bottle to the ground, "no matter how bad I may get." Closing his eyes, he laid down and rested his head in my lap. "Take care of my roses," he said. "That's all I ask of you. Remember, grow them with love, and they'll be the most beautiful roses in the world."

"I promise, I'll take care of them," I said.

We never exchanged another word.

To this day, I believe I did the right thing. I have no regrets. I can't picture Anthony laying bedridden, oblivious to the world, unable to enjoy his garden. I believe there is a special garden set aside for him in Heaven which he can tend all day. He is free from pain and I'm positive that, at long last, he has his sight so he may see the beauty that he creates with his roses.

Today, I live in the home where Anthony and I shared our first moments together. I work late into the evening, pulling weeds and planting new rose bushes. My heart fills with love and contentment and I do think happy thoughts, just as Anthony told me to, fond thoughts of our brief time together on this earth. As the sun sets, I sit in the rose arbour where we first professed our love. I deeply inhale the scent of the roses and I know that somewhere Anthony is smiling peacefully.

Every rose in the garden is for my love.