We decorate the neighborhood every year with our streetside rose garden. It’s a satisfying “effort.” I put effort in quotes because the effort expended has nothing to do with me, beyond the money we spend to have it maintained and watered.
I’m home from work today (Labor Day) and took a minute to walk out the front door to check the air (we have smoke and heat). Our roses are clearly fading, having done their due diligence, especially through an extra hot summer. I haven’t cut a single one to take inside, so today was the day.
The white ones in the first picture grow from the spot we buried Paul’s cremains 23 years ago, the memory of Margaret-Rose only a few feet from there.
I did a search on this site to see if I’ve ever shared the 55-word story I wrote about this rose garden. I had——in 2007, ten years ago. Maybe it’s OK to share it again, since it’s on my mind and fits my thoughts only days after the 29th anniversary of MM-R’s death:
They had met long ago. Only letters spanned
the intervening years. Nothing romantic developed;
their hearts belonged to others.
“I wish you’d known him better,” she said.
“I wish you’d known her better,” he said.
No jealousy exists as the two watch
from some celestial porch.
“They remember us in those roses.”
“And our children.”