Someone gave us a huge vase of roses when my grandmother died.  Some where a pale silver-purple that made the petals look thick like velvet, and others were yellow and white.  My mom and I shared my grandmother’s room while she made “arrangements” and split up the furniture with her older brother and I moved the roses next to my side of the bed.

Even when they wilted and grew head-heavy and dark, I would stare at their tutu-like ruffles of petals and think of cakes and thin scarves, tulle, old-fashioned bathing caps and parasols.  When the petals began to drop I ripped them all from the stems and put them in an abalone dish my grandmother had used for stray jewelry she hadn’t put properly away.  Grandmothers have things like that.

Really, there was and is no negative association I can come up with regarding roses—despite the obvious.  

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