Mawar Untuk Violetta (Roses for Violetta)

Violetta Marianna percaya bahwa setiap mawar memiliki cerita.

Ia menyukai mawar merah yang berani, mawar putih yang tenang, mawar merah muda yang lembut, bahkan mawar kuning yang sering disalahartikan sebagai lambang perpisahan. Di kamar kecilnya, buku catatan Violetta penuh dengan sketsa kelopak dan catatan tentang arti setiap warna. Bagi Violetta, mawar bukan sekadar bunga dan mawar adalah bahasa perasaan.

Kota kecil San Felice mempertemukan Violetta dengan bahasa itu secara nyata.

Di pinggir kota, terbentang sebuah kebun mawar luas milik Alessandro Gustavo atau yang lebih dikenal sebagai Sandro. Ia pria yang lebih memilih berbicara dengan tanah dan duri ketimbang dengan manusia. Tangannya kasar karena pekerjaan, namun sentuhannya selalu lembut pada setiap kelopak mawar yang tumbuh.

Pertemuan mereka terjadi pada pagi yang hangat.

Violetta berdiri terpaku di antara barisan mawar, matanya berbinar seperti anak kecil. Sandro memperhatikannya dari kejauhan, heran melihat seseorang menatap bunganya seolah menemukan harta karun.

“Kamu suka mawar?” tanya Sandro akhirnya.

Violetta menoleh cepat. “Aku mencintainya.”

Sandro tersenyum tipis. “Kalau begitu, kamu datang ke tempat yang tepat.”

Hari-hari berikutnya, Violetta sering kembali ke kebun itu. Ia mendengarkan Sandro bercerita tentang mawar yang paling sulit dirawat, tentang duri yang melindungi kelopak, dan tentang kesabaran yang dibutuhkan agar bunga mekar sempurna.

Sebaliknya, Violetta bercerita tentang arti warna, tentang bagaimana mawar bisa menjadi ungkapan cinta tanpa kata.

“Kamu tahu,” kata Violetta suatu sore, “mawar merah muda artinya kekaguman.”

Sandro terdiam. Tatapannya jatuh pada bunga di tangannya, lalu perlahan beralih pada Violetta.

Sejak saat itu, keheningan di kebun terasa berbeda. Lebih hangat. Lebih hidup.

Musim berganti, mawar bermekaran paling indah tahun itu. Pada pagi yang dipenuhi aroma bunga, Sandro menyodorkan setangkai mawar yang tak biasa seperti gradasi merah, putih, dan merah muda dalam satu tangkai.

“Aku menanam ini khusus,” katanya pelan.

“Untuk apa?” tanya Violetta.

“Untuk mengatakan sesuatu yang belum pernah kukatakan.”

Violetta menerima mawar itu dengan tangan gemetar.

“Setiap warna punya arti,” lanjut Sandro. “Dan aku ingin semua arti itu… untukmu.”

Di kebun mawar kecil di kota San Felice, cinta pun tumbuh, pelan, sabar, dan indah.

Seperti mawar.

[Bahasa Inggris]

Violetta Marianna believed that every rose had a story.

She loved the bold red roses, the serene white ones, the soft pinks, and even the yellow roses—often misunderstood as a symbol of parting. In her small room, Violetta’s notebook was filled with sketches of petals and notes about the meaning of each color. To Violetta, roses were more than just flowers—they were a language of the heart.

The small town of San Felice made that language real.

On the outskirts of town stretched a vast rose garden owned by Alessandro Gustavo, better known as Sandro. He was a man who preferred speaking to the soil and thorns rather than to people. His hands were rough from work, yet his touch was always gentle on each delicate rose that bloomed.

Their meeting happened on a warm morning.

Violetta stood frozen among the rows of roses, her eyes sparkling like a child’s. Sandro watched her from afar, curious at how someone could look at his flowers as if discovering a treasure.

“You like roses?” Sandro finally asked.

Violetta turned quickly. “I love them.”

Sandro gave a faint smile. “Then you’ve come to the right place.”

In the following days, Violetta often returned to the garden. She listened as Sandro spoke about the most difficult roses to care for, the thorns that protected the petals, and the patience required for a flower to bloom perfectly.

In return, Violetta spoke about the meanings of colors—how roses could express love without words.

“You know,” Violetta said one afternoon, “pink roses symbolize admiration.”

Sandro fell silent. His gaze lingered on the flower in his hand, then slowly shifted to Violetta.

From that moment, the silence in the garden felt different. Warmer. More alive.

Seasons changed, and that year the roses bloomed more beautifully than ever. On a morning filled with the scent of flowers, Sandro offered her an unusual rose—a single stem blending red, white, and pink.

“I planted this especially for you,” he said softly.

“For what?” Violetta asked.

“To say something I’ve never said before.”

Violetta accepted the rose with trembling hands.

“Every color has a meaning,” Sandro continued. “And I want all of them… for you.”

In the small rose garden of San Felice, love bloomed slow, patient, and beautiful.

Just like the roses.