Roses
My Dad came round for a meal yesterday evening, as is now customary about once a week. He normally brings a newspaper cutting (or 5) that he thinks will interest us, but this week he brought some roses from his garden for me. They smell beautiful and come from a number of different bushes, all of them now aging. As the bushes have aged, the flower stems get weaker, but the flowers themselves are just as wonderful as ever. (Some are carefully supported by a complicated network of string, but still thrive.)
The idea of buying flowers for family members has never really occurred to Dad, but he used to go searching round the garden for roses for Mum. (He always used to find one, at least, for her on Christmas day, even if it was sometimes a bit small and battered and occasionally frost encrusted.)
I love the flowers for their own sake, and also because Dad brought them for me, carefully held in his thicker pair of gardening gloves. I also feel a little sad, because before Mum died, they would have been picked for her.
The idea of buying flowers for family members has never really occurred to Dad, but he used to go searching round the garden for roses for Mum. (He always used to find one, at least, for her on Christmas day, even if it was sometimes a bit small and battered and occasionally frost encrusted.)
I love the flowers for their own sake, and also because Dad brought them for me, carefully held in his thicker pair of gardening gloves. I also feel a little sad, because before Mum died, they would have been picked for her.