As my father continues his slow decline, there are those moments where interesting stories bubble to the surface. At a recent lunch, he was sitting next to an elderly woman, and reached out and took her hand. She said "I like that", he replied "I like you!", "And I like you too". A simple, pure exchange of joy at a moment of life, so far out of character from the person that I knew as my father, but deep inside, there was this thing that finally came to the surface, this gentle touch and joy. It made me contemplate the rose...
The Rose
To say "Rose", brings forth the image of the flower, opened in its full splendor, or a tight bud, barely breaking into bloom; fragrant essence wafting in the breeze, its stamen dotted with pollen, its stem armored with tines.
But the flower could not be without the bush, almost forgotten in its stoic functionality. The years of growing, pushing the roots into the earth to gather up the damp, the nutrient, spreading leaves into the sun to collect the dappled rays, vines going out and up, thorns to ward off those that would try their luck at a tasty leaf. If it were not for the flower, this bush would be a weed - pulled out and discarded, a bramble, a nuisance.
The flowers are the culmination of growth. The tiny buds so tightly wrapped that one could scarcely imagine the wonder contained within. In a few short days they explode into blossoms, the full gamut of nature in their color; all the textures of a tailors shop in their blossoms paper - flouncy, silky, leathery, lacy. They project their scent out, triggering sweet images of nectar for the bees, and sweet images of romance for people...
Perhaps they are clipped and brought into the house. Perhaps they are sold in the market to someone whom may never have raised roses - never really seen the bush. Perhaps they are left on the bush to go their natural path.
And then, in a few more days, they are gone. The petals slowly fray from touch, or rust and wither, and fall to the ground - their bright colors fade to an earthy brown. The wondrous scent has faded into a vague shadow of it self. The remaining pollen floats away hopefully in a breeze, or suffers the same fate as the petals. Finally, all that is left is the stem, and the bush.
The bush, reaches deeper into the soil, stretches further into the air, gathering strength for it's next round of creation.
