Choking back another sob, I bunched up yet another one of my beautiful hand dyed shirts and threw it in a garbage can. I had already given my best ones away to smiling faces that passed by. With the trip to come, I could only take what I could carry. My mind began to wander; yesterday was the worst day of my life. After finally leaving the safety of Bobby's couch, I was taken by the band to see Jerry.

Jerome Garcia was sleeping when I entered the room. At least, he looked like he was sleeping- but he wasn't going to wake up any time soon. He was cold, I had always remembered him as being so warm. But I knew that it wasn't Jerry lying on that bed, Jerry was far away, bound for parts unknown. Only his body was left behind. There was nothing for me there, no way to find what I was looking for. So I kissed his forehead, and walked out.

There was nothing left for any of the family where we were now. We were all going to leave, make our pilgrimage to Haight Ashbury, the birthplace of the Dead. Packed and ready to go, I decided to go see Phil.

Phil had taken the news worse than anyone I knew. I was worried, he wouldn't get out of bed. It was as if he were dead and not Jerry. The phrase "But he can't be dead, I just saw him yesterday" crossed my mind. Everyone had heard that one a lot lately. As I entered Phil's tent, I knew something was wrong. A familiar voice was singing "If I Had the World to Give," the voice was unmistakable, Phil.

"Phil!" "Hey Phil what's going on?"

No answer but the faint sound of his voice, "I may not have the world to give to you . . . "

I found Phil semiconscious in a pool of blood. "Phil, oh no . . . "

"Rose, you look like an angel."

I cradled his head in my lap. "But, why?"

"All my life I've been let down by one person after another. The only people that stayed with me were you and Jerry. Now with him gone, the magic in my life has disappeared."

"You still have me, you always will."

"My angel, but you don't need me. I would weigh you down."

"What's lighter than I cannot weigh me down, let me help you, please." He coughed, I realized that he must be almost dead.

"There's nothin' you can do now."

"Please, let me sing your blues away."

"Sure Rose, your gift is on the table."

I kissed his forehead and began to sing. Starting with "A Box of Rain," my voice was clear and cool, but soon my song changed into the warm chords of my song "Psychedelic Roses." When I was finished, I looked down to see that Phil had died. Unable to hold back the tears, I laid down beside my friend and cried all the tears left in me.

Sometime later, a minute or an hour it didn't matter anymore, I sat up and picked up the gift. It was wrapped in an old tie-dyed T-shirt that Phil had worn until it was full of holes and had begun to disintegrate. Giving into a small laugh, I opened the gift. Inside was a card that said, "Open my watch" I did so and a small piece of paper fell out. Unfolded it read,

"It's over," I whispered. Taking the watch, I opened it again and found an inscription that hadn't been there before. It read,"Maybe it was the Rose."

That night I went to bed early. Not because I was tired, because I wanted to be alone. I had been depending on Phil for as long as I could remember. He was my support, my crutch. Without him, I was nothing. And now, I could no longer depend on him. Tomorrow I would begin my journey and leave Phil behind, along with a piece of myself.