Blossoming

Elise's rose bush is flowering. It's not the "official" rose we planted at her memorial, but even as a replacement for the one that didn't make it, it still represents hope for me.

We had planted two rose bushes at the memorial: one that we bought, and another my friends (then colleagues) at the Modern Languages Department gave us. November 10th was rather late in the year to plant, even though the weather was relatively warm for mid-autumn. The soil where we planted it is not the greatest either, since it was formerly gravel driveway and thus full of rocks and clay. And to top it off, we don't really grow roses and don't know much about their care. So both the rose bushes didn't make it the following spring.

But I had saved the receipt from the Department's gift, and got another rose from the nursery that had guaranteed the original for up to a year or they would replace it. When I returned from the nursery and planted the replacement, Dan said he was glad I could bring myself to do it, because he was feeling too demoralized.

I completely empathized with him. At the same time, I somehow felt driven to grow roses for Elise, even if they weren't the ones we planted at her memorial. I wouldn't be defeated by death, dammit: I had to prevail, no matter how small the gesture of my determination.

The soil is not the best, as I said, but the rose blooms have good company: the aspen we planted five years ago seems to grow before our eyes, probably 3 feet or more since it started out in our garden. The lilac that last year seemed plagued by mysterious black spots on its leaves is in full, fragrant flower. Along with its twin on the west side of the house, it never flowered much in all the years we've lived here, but this season we can scent its loveliness every time we open our front door.

So we live in the mystery, not knowing much except for one certainty: that flowers follow snow, which follows flowers, and so on.