Roses

I like pale yellow roses.

When I was on my clinical, every time I walked to be the hospital or walked home I walked past this pale yellow rose bush. I always wanted there to someone outside to talk to about the roses. I know gardeners–gardeners love making other people into gardeners. It’s fun for gardeners to pass on plants, and they’re tickled if you like their plants enough to want them. So all I needed to do was meet the gardener, and I would get clippings of this yellow rose. This would be splendid, because my last attempt at growing yellow roses had just sadly met it’s end. Yellow roses would just be a spot of happiness if I could grow them.

There was never anyone out there. Not in the morning, not in the afternoon. I took pictures of the roses; I looked at the roses every day. But nobody was ever outside, even though the garden was obviously being taking care of. But every day I hoped and every day I checked. Maybe today.

The first week went by, and there was nobody.

The second week went by, and still I never saw anyone.

The third week went by, and I realized I might never met the owner of the roses.

The fourth week was going by, and I started to resign myself that yellow roses were not for me.

On the very last day, I walked home. When I started nearing the roses, I talked to myself inside my head. “Oh well, self. I guess no roses. This is your last day, and you never met anyone. Your silly little dream of bringing home roses to grow and make you smile is nothing more than a silly little dream.”

Then I walked around the corner, and I saw someone tending the roses.

Coincidence upon coincidence!

I did indeed talk with her, and she was indeed as pleased as punch to offer me cuttings–come by and get them any time! We talked about other wonderful nearby gardens. We amicably parted ways, and right before I left town, I took one nice big cutting.

I took it home in a jar of water. It was a very happy little rose. I turned it into two cuttings and followed proper directions for getting roses to root.

Now there are two dead rose twigs sitting on my window sill.

I don’t want to get rid of them. Because nothing was going to work out and I wasn’t going to get my little hope and dream, and then, against all odds, it did work out! And then in the end it didn’t matter, it didn’t make a difference, and it still didn’t happen. So my dead twigs are sitting on the windowsill, waiting to burst into life and prove that against all odds, everything is okay.

2 Responses to Roses

  1. Great. I’ll just go kill myself now.

  2. ty. I try to explain things well. . .

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