Read by Matilda Longbottom

Flower gardens have always been a sanctuary for me, a place where I can soothe my senses and meditate. Every time I feel sad, being in the garden eases my pain.

One of my earliest memories is finding a note with my mother’s handwriting in my school-lunch bag. It began, “Roses are red.” Many years later, those words would ignite a spiritual journey within me. Now, a rosebush stands as the centerpiece of my yard, its lush leaves and red flowers adorning what was once a barren bush.

A couple of years after our wedding, my husband Don and I bought our first home, a modest house on an older tree-lined street. We were proud first-time homebuyers with a mortgage. Don planted our lawn with help from friends. The green, carpet-like sod looked great but needed colorful accents. Family and friends gifted bushes and trees to fill the empty spots. My mother Irma arrived one day with a rosebush in tow.

Mom kept a neat yard when she had her own house, but I chuckled at her choice.

“Aren’t roses very hard to grow?” I asked.

“Oh, you’ll figure it out,” she replied confidently.

Year after year, the bush seemed like a shy youngster—healthy but never blooming. Don moved it around our property, chasing the sun for the perfect light. We watered and fertilized, trying to be “rose whisperers” as we talked to and coaxed the bush. Nothing happened. Rather than dig it up and throw it out, we let it stay like an unwanted guest.

“Leave it until next year,” one of us would say. The bush always had a reprieve.

Twenty-five years later, Don burst into the sun porch with a broad grin on his face.

“You’ll never believe it!” he exclaimed. “Mom’s rosebush has a flower on it.” From the beginning, we had always called it “Mom’s bush,” not ours.

The next time she visited, Mom walked slowly with a cane to see the new bloom for herself. She stood before the buds and stared, “I hope this doesn’t mean that I’m going to die.”

I swallowed hard. She was 90 years old, but the thought of her not being with me hurt too much. I looked away, unable to talk about death.

The next Spring, my mom passed away. That Summer, I experienced a familiar replay. Again, Don stood in the doorway. His call shook me out of my lethargy. “Come outside. I want you to see this.” He towed me to our old friend, Mom’s rosebush. I gasped in disbelief. Hundreds of glorious crimson red flowers felt like a symbol of lips offering a loving kiss. Was this Mom’s sign telling me she was happy? Tears stung the back of my eyes. My mind retrieved those verses I learned from her when I was a child, “Roses are red.” ❖

About the Author: Carole Fleischman, though blind, finds immense joy in her garden by using her heightened senses of smell and touch to identify flowers and plants. Her excellent hearing allows her to recognize songbirds before they are visible to sighted bird watchers. Carole’s connection with nature is profound, and she loves sharing her experiences through her writing.