Tuesday, March 8, 2011


I think of them and I think soft and I think sweet and I think of them as petals and parts, already falling to pieces. A rose, it seems, is born to die, but aren't we all. A rose unfolds, but it is only a rose for a moment. A rose is a memory of sweetness that cannot last. A precious gift, dear because it dies and so we mark our graves with roses, perhaps to mark the way, because soon, soon, we must follow them home.

(This was part of a writing exercise. My dad took a photograph of a yellow rose on the morning of the day he died - 29 September 1973. A little before his death, he planted four rose bushes, and the first rose opened on the morning of his death. The day after he died, which was a sunday, the second one opened. It was pink and the species name was 'Carina' - almost my name.)

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