My own roses

Though a bit late this summer, everywhere I walk in town the roses are blooming. Whether they are climbing up garden walls or growing in bushes here and there, whenever I see them I smile. I used to hate roses — or rather, the idea of giving someone roses, because it was clich√© and I didn’t really like the look of roses that came from a florist. Roses growing out, though, are a different thing entirely. The Red House in Oklahoma had a rose bush, and while caring for it for the year and a half I lived there I read Rose Daughter by Robin McKinley, and well, I fell in love with roses. Since then I have remembered that my MeeMee kept roses at her house in Charleston. I am glad to share this connection with her.

So when I was walking home from working at the Registry today, helping prepare for graduations this week, I was admiring other people’s roses and feeling sad that my own garden did not have any. It was a beautiful warm afternoon and I took a longer route home, even if I was very tired from a full weekend of work. My route happened to pass by the other little garden shop, which tends to have a greater variety of plants than the proper garden shop nearer my house. I paused to looked at the plants, not intending to buy any, as most plants are out of my budget right now. But then I saw a teeny rose peeking its head out from the shadows of a low shelf. I walked away with two, because together they were only ¬£3, and I couldn’t decide which I wanted more. I came home, repotted them, and put them on the sitting room windowsill — the default home for plants until I decide where they need to go. I hope they stay there, because it also means I can look at them, and smile at my very own roses. I plan to keep them in pots as long as I can, so that they can move with me when I move house.

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