In the late 1800’s, my forebears made their way west from Salina, Kansas. As a locomotive engineer, the Iron Horse provided my great grandfather a respectable living. He settled down, built a house and worked hard like his Irish immigrant father before him. In that place, he grew a wild yellow rose bush, its origin unknown.
Time wound on. My great-grandfather passed away first and his family in due. The house my mother grew up in remains, sold long ago, but still inhabited. When she left or sometime after, my mother acquired a piece of that rose and like any good gardener, made history a part of her landscape.
Years ago she sent me a piece of that rose and gave story to my garden too. At first it thrived but fell back as life shaded it. By the time I moved it to a locale with free view of the sky, it was gone.
A month ago, I returned to her garden – a lifetime in the growing – it is something to see. But age is crowding my mother, leaving shadows in the memory of a garden once bright. The rose still thrives, scrambling through tree and bush toward the sun, tough. While there I snipped some stems and ferried them home.
Despite my efforts, the starts I clipped that day dropped their leaves and browned in the water where I had hoped new roots would grow. Deciding it should depart in the sun, I placed it in a full south window and waited for brittle sticks of time.
Yesterday I noticed green. The stems have not further withered, but instead produced a tiny unfolding leaflet.
My mother loves the sun, always did. So does this rose. Hopefully the story will play on. We will see.
