Every
day on the walk to my grandmother's front door, I stopped to smell
every rose that I could reach on her three rose bushes. The sweet
scent curled over my nostrils as I inhaled deeply, careful not to let
my chubby fingers near the sharp thorns. My mother comes up from
behind me and tries to hurry me along. She is late to work and I can
smell the roses all day long if I want to. She does not have time to
stop and smell the roses.
An
Illusion
As
I grew older, the roses seemed to get smaller and smaller. They were
far less pretty and sweet smelling than I remembered. They became a
game to see which cousin could push through the bushes and not cry
from the thorns digging into soft skin and tangling in long hair. The
roses changed and became an enemy. They became something we had to
fight and claw to get free. They held us back from what we wanted. We
did not have time to stop and smell the roses.
Growing
Up
My
grandmother lost that house when I was a teenager. My grandfather
lost his job and they could not afford to live there anymore; the
bank took it back. We all helped her move into her new house. There
was a distinct lack of roses. But roses came to mean so much more to
me. Once a sweet smelling flower, a game, and now loss. When my
grandmother stood in front of her rose bushes, crying, I hurried past
her with a box. I did not have time to stop and smell the roses.
