“White Roses for an Idol”I stopped at a West Hollywood florist to pick up a small white rose bouquet. It was wrapped in clear cellophane with an oversized thick red satin ribbon tied around it. I didn’t want to show up empty-handed at Marilyn’s final resting place. I had taken a walk around the dozens of potted orchids admiring their originality. They were statuesque and strong, like I imagined Marilyn would be, but somehow I ended up with white roses.
“Do you need a card for with those flowers?” the clerk asked me.
“Yes please,” I answered. “Why not?”
But what I had to say to Marilyn would fill up a lot more space than that little card could hold, I thought. I had so many questions for her, like how did she become so beautiful? Why did she have to die so young? Maybe I could actually m
