Springstein and the Rose bush

It began when I tramped down the stairs early one morning to find Bruce Springstein sat hunched in the corner of my hall, accoustic guitar in lap. He was finnishing a song. I remember the last words clearly:

"And though all the people say
'its a bad name'
I call
my daughter
Hugh"

He sang, dignified and proud, like a 1920's railroad worker laid off in the great depression. I wondered what brought him to my shabby abode. His reply came at some length, consisting of a story I could not follow, in a language I did not understand or recognise. It was strange how I became enrapt in its telling; the shear power of his husky voice continues to haunt me, even to this day.

I gave him a cup of tea and went outside to smell the roses that grow in my garden. No garden in this city is as overgrown or as chaotic as mine, a point I find pride in. But the roses are the sweetest smelling I have ever cupped and raised to my nose. Springstein came outside and ripped the rose bush out of the soil with one great tug. I stood, paralysed with fear and shock as he twisted the stem around my head, eliciting blood that poured down onto my chest and arms, the thorns cruelly ripping through the thin skin that covers my skull. My crown in place, he strolled out into the street wiping my blood from his hands on faded blue levis. He was gone without a word.

I sometimes wonder what could have brought Bruce to my home and what meaning there was in his actions and his story. The rose bush has since started to grow again and most of the scars on my head have healed - almost all are invisible under the hat I now wear. I took a month off work and claimed 'loss of earnings' from the government. I received several thousand pounds.