Throughout all my living years, I have yet to come across a soul who can grow roses quite like my mother.
Always in bloom her roses were, no matter the weather. Scattered across the garden dressed in various shades of whites and pinks, purples and oranges. As a child I preferred the yellow ones as they were sweeter and had much less of an attitude than the others.
However, my mother favored the brazen reds over all and kept them close to the house for safety. For whose that is I still do not know.
She had a way with them unlike any other. She spoke to them, and they listened. She gave herself to them monthly, and they happily obliged.
In return for her services the plants themselves surrendered. Retracting their thorns and volunteering to be pruned from the lot once their cycles were drawing to a close. Sacrifices to which my mother meticulously displayed around the home.
They lived for each other it seemed, for when she died they did too. I attempted to rear them after she passed, as much for my sake as her memory. But the stubborn things refused to cooperate and in turn withered away despite my best efforts. In the end it was evident that I was not my mother, although I was never accused of being so. Still, no one could grow roses quite like she.