My Father’s Rose Bush
A dear friend gave me a rose bush when my mother died, 12 years ago this month. She also gave me one to plant after my father died, 11 years this coming August.
Unfortunately my mother’s rose bush wasn’t planted in the right spot, I think, and didn’t thrive; but the one planted in my father’s memory is going strong.
My friend stopped by this week and we were remarking that this little rose bush has held its own for almost nine years; it is tough and resilient, just as my father was. It takes a very little bit of care: pruning, feeding and watering, but other than those minor chores, just keeps blooming during the warmer months.
The new buds are blooming, and just about every day a new one has opened, reminding me that life does truly continue on.
Now, my mother was the one who loved flowers—roses in particular, so I like to think that my father’s roses bloom in her memory too, they were married almost 60 years after all.
Thanks to my good friend, Beth, for giving me a lasting reminder of my father and of his sometimes thorny attitude and his persistence in living his life. But also I remember that he and my mother were wonderful parents when all is said and done.