My Aunt Bren had a green thumb, among many other talents.
She could cook, too—despite her denials. I never ate anything at her table that wasn’t delicious, always prepared with care and love.
But one thing she could do without fail was grow roses.
Her rose bushes were almost supernaturally lush and prolific. Their fragrance drifted on the breeze, greeting anyone who stepped out of their car in her yard. It was soft, sweet, and unmistakable.
The rose bush still lives. It has outlived her.
Perhaps the love she poured into those roses gave them their longevity, their quiet, enduring beauty. Every spring, without intervention, they bloom again—as if nature itself remembers her, and chooses to honor her in petals and scent.
We should all be so lucky to be remembered that way.
In something living.
In something beautiful.
In something that returns, year after year, like a dewy rose in the morning sun.