Roses

When I first bought my own house ten years ago, I was so overjoyed I practically danced instead of walked every day.

One of the first things I did was look for a climbing rose bush. I wanted one that had big, fat, pale pink cabbage roses. I wanted one that would have a scent. I wanted it to be old fashioned and beautiful. I would cut it's blooms to crowd into a vase on my nightstand and they would infuse my room with their perfume.



I found what I wanted at our local nursery. And the name was perfect: Eden. Corny, I know, but that is how I felt about my sweet little house. I dug a hole in a sunny spot against the fence on the edge of my patio and planted it myself. I was so happy I actually cried.



Things have changed a lot in ten years. The job I loved is gone, the entire department eliminated in New Jersey and relocated to another state. My girls have grown up and have moved out, leaving me with four bedrooms and three bathrooms to myself and a basketball hoop that now has a branch of the maple tree starting to grow into it. Friendships have grown and others have vanished. MS has made it impossible to take care of my home anymore by myself, never mind dig a hole and plant a shrub.



And my climbing rose? It towers over 8 feet high now and spreads about four feet to either side. One thing that will never change is the joy I feel every time it blooms. Every time I fill a vase with it's flowers. When I no longer live here and it is blooming for someone else, some of me will still be there where my happy tears fell as I planted it. And I will hold fast the memory of falling asleep enveloped in it's scent.