The old rose bush stood at attention in my front yard. He was a gnarly, knobby, thorny old thing. When we first rented the little house where he had lived for so many years, I almost felt like I had to ask for his permission to be there. He was over-grown from many years of neglect. Wooded canes grew out from the bottom, and he was a sad, shabby sight. "That plant has been here for about 50 years" said my landlady. "I was going to have it removed, but I rented to you before I could take care of it"
He allowed me to take care of him. I watered him, and made sure he knew I was interested in his welfare. I always kept my distance so I would not to let him know what I had in mind. I had to wait many months for the weather to grow cool and crisp. Finally. I crept up on him one day, pruning his long dead canes, and carefully removing the dead leaves from his thorny interior. He bit me. Drawing blood with one of his huge, sharp thorns. I pulled my hand back, sucking on my wound, and vowed never to touch him without gloves again.
He reminded me of my Dad. He was a gruff, edgy old guy. A war hero with a Silver Star he kept in a drawer, and never talked about much. He had his problems. I think the war scarred him forever. He loved my mother. Beautiful gifts, candy, flowers. I know he loved me too. He loved all of us. It was just hard for him to talk about it. He had a quick wit, and a great sense of humor. He was very successful in business. We lived in a huge house in a very affluent area. He gave us a lot. Ponies, braces, cars. If only I had felt closer to him. He drank too much, and turned into someone who wasn't very nice. I remember the emotional wounds he inflicted without his realizing how deep they went. In his fifties, he gave up the drinking. " Just stopped" my mother said.
I put a bandage on my hand. I wasn't going to let a little blood deter me from conquering the old rose bush. I knew that inside of him were so many beautiful flowers, just dying to burst forth. I fed my old rose bush, and paid extra attention to his needs. I dug up the dirt around him, and built a berm to keep the water in. Hoping, hoping.
The old bush began to respond. I saw some new, healthy shoots making their way towards the sun. Suddenly, there were so many buds coming out of my old nemesis, that even I was impressed with how much my nurturing had accomplished. Tight green buds, that opened with the color of sunshine! The wonderful smell filled the air, and attracted a whole world of new visitors. Butterflies, bees, so many creatures responded to their glory. They covered the old plant, so much so, that even at night, it seemed to glow in the moonlight.
"Yellow roses are your mother's favorites" my dad said when I brought my first bouquet to their home. He was losing weight, and I was surprised to see him looking so suddenly old and frail. He hadn't been feeling well for quite a while, but he never said anything. His foot had been hurting him. He was treated for arthritis, bursitis, and every "itis" you could think of. Why was he not eating? He looked thin.
I was bringing so many roses over to their house that my dad said " You should open a flower shop". It was true. I was giving big, beautiful, fragrant roses to everyone I knew. My neighbor wanted a cutting to start her own plant. I was so happy that my old rose bush was responding to my love, that I was trying to spread the love around to everyone I knew. I found myself looking after my dad more often as well. Dad and I were making headway. Old resentments were replaced with understanding, but he wasn't responding like my rose bush. He was growing weaker, thinner.
The diagnosis was bone cancer. Terminal. It had started in his foot. By the time he had the bone scan, it was all the way up to his skull. We were all in shock. He went into a convalescence hospital. I filled his room with the roses. Roses that wouldn't stop blooming. He was failing. Slipping away. At last, we could say "I love you" to each other. We said it often. His eyes filled with pride with each new bouquet.
I had brought more roses to mom's home. The phone rang. "He isn't responding, please come over right away." Her eyes filled with tears, and we knew. Dad would be gone very soon. We were all with him when the end came. The room was filled with roses, and crying.
There were more roses at the funeral. The military guard fired their guns, people spoke (or was it the other way around?), and before we knew it, we were greeting guests at mom's house. It was surreal. It was over in a blur of tears, and family. Memories poured out of us, and so did the sadness of our loss.
The roses kept coming. The old rose bush found new purpose. Year after year, giving so much happiness, and so many beautiful roses. Still prickly, still quiet. I thought of the other old soldier, the memories of happy times began to come more often than the memories of the hard times. Healing more with every season of new roses.
Now it was time to move in with mom. She needed our help full time. I wanted to take my old rose bush with me, but I was afraid I would injure him. He had been there for so long. That was his home. I was so busy preparing for our move. Packing, wrapping, stressing. I ignored him . He acted as though he didn't miss my attention. Healthy and strong, busy himself, putting out more roses. Finally, the dreaded moment came. I had to say goodbye to my old rose bush. As I left the house for the last time, I cried to leave my old nemesis.
He stood at attention in the yard.