The Rose Growers

In my small Welsh town, where the hills roll like green memories and the sheep dot the landscape like quotation marks in God’s own story, there lived an old woman named Mrs. Pritchard. Every day of her eighty-seven years, she tended her rose garden with the devotion of a saint. Hybrid teas and climbers, floribundas that bloomed like captured sunsets, old roses that remembered the breath of centuries. When the young men from the village went off to war, she sent them each a pressed rose petal in a letter. When they came home changed, or when they didn’t come home at all, they remembered her and the simple beauty of the rose petal, or didn’t. She planted new roses in remembrance of the ones that couldn’t remember.

“A rose,” her hands dark with honest dirt, “doesn’t care about your politics or your pride. It only cares about being present. That’s enough. That should be enough for all of us.”