When the winter dies, my mother’s rose plants wake up. The pink one. The pale peach one. The red one. The white one. “Which one is your favorite?”
I never had perfect answer to that question. “None.” “Umm, maybe the white one.”
I never liked roses. I never understood why people loved that flower so much. Why people hold a rose to express the eternity of love. Why people celebrate love with a bouquet of roses. In a world where we have narcissus, jasmine, tuberose, lilies, tulip, peonies, daffodils, hydrangea, lotus, and so many unknown, unnamed flowers beside the pavement, why do we chase roses in supermarket?
But this year I have two roses in my garden. Deep red. Kind of fragile in this weather. Every morning when the sun shines on them, I remember my days with my mother in her garden. They remind me of the bond between a mother and a daughter, the smell of early spring, and a lovely nostalgia that maybe only a rose plant can carry within.
I can’t say, I’ve become a rose lover all of a sudden. But I love nostalgia, and everything that my mother grows in her garden.
** Are you a rose lover too? Or you’re like those few who love anything but perfect roses?