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I always remember the roses were in bloom the day my father died. It had been my mother's frantic call at 7 o'clock that morning that had seen me hurriedly getting dressed, driving at illegal speeds and knocking on her door thirty minutes later.

As I walked down the short path to my parent's bungalow I glanced at the three small rose bushes that fronted the garden and noticed the delicate, pink petals that were just opening to the bright morning sun. My father loved his roses.

I reflected back on the times as a child I had tried to help him in the garden. I had been told, being too young to remember myself, that after watching him press down cuttings in a bucket with his foot I had tried to do the same. With my short legs I had needed to get on all fours to lift my foot and put it into the bucket, my father had apparently been in hysterics watching my antics.

"The hospital has rang. He deteriorated overnight and he's on a cardiac machine. They're not sure if he's going to make it." Mum was distraught. Dad had seemed fine when I had visited him the previous evening. His stomach was distended and the hospital had been running tests, but he had seemed bright and relaxed. There had been no indication of anything serious.

We entered the ward to see him taped up to the heart monitor. It was extremely unnerving to watch the weakened beats struggle across the screen. My own heart seemed to pound in time with each pulse, as if trying to make up for what dad's heart lacked. He had an oxygen mask over his face which he removed every few minutes to share some words with mum.

"I've had a good life haven't I?"
"Don't be so daft!" she slapped his arm lightly, her moist eyes begging him to recover.
"And we've had some great holidays."
"And we'll have loads more."
Dad smiled at her before replacing the mask briefly. "How are my roses?"

The duty doctor had warned us when we arrived that they were going to need to open him up to see what was causing the problem. They had conducted some scans and there seemed to be a large blockage in his bowel with a moving mass in his stomach. The only way to find out what these obstructions were was to operate, but they didn't know if he would survive the procedure.

"I wish they'd hurry up and get me." Even though he had always had a fear of hospitals, Dad was getting impatient now he knew he was going down to theater.
"They'll be here soon", mum was trying not to look too concerned but was failing miserably, "we'll come down to the theater with you then

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