My husband’s rose stands tall and strong at the center of our garden. Each new season I find myself lost in the fragrant spice of it’s rich, velvety red blooms. These days the grafted hybrid tea rose prevails aloft a gnarled, well-worn stem standing over a metre tall. Scaffolded by pickets and filled with the promise of a love and life that endure.  His rose bears the name, Father’s Love, and my heart is safe with him.

It was a decade ago when I planted my rose garden. A tribute to all the precious people in my life. I vividly remember conscientiously studying the meanings of each rose. Choosing family favourites, like the rich emerald-green leaves and apricot blossoms of my father’s favourite rose, Just Joey.  

Sitting on the porch that winter I longed for my garden to grow and flourish, to fill my home with the fresh summer fragrance of rose buds in full bloom. 

Now, a decade on, these roses tell a story.  

With anticipation, I painstakingly prune the last of this season’s dead wood from our children’s roses, Double Delight and Perfect Moment. We hope that growth is inevitable, but pruning roses is tricky. Searching through thorns I prune just above the small bumps, where the new leaves will meet the stem. 

Invasive grass and clover prosper heartily amidst the perfect combination of winter rains, warm sunny days, and inattention. Yearning for the season to come, I’m harassed by the weeds.  Why do I neglect my garden? Am I too easily seduced by life and the desire for other things or am I running from all this garden symbolises? 

Struggling with the thorns as I prune away the old growth I’m besieged by emotions. Tucked away beneath the towering stem of Just Joey, is my little Gold Bunny, the happy little floribunda rose I planted for my youngest brother.  

Taken by the moment, I step back. A decade on I realise this fragile little floribunda is the last left of the roses I planted for my siblings. Estrangements are like weeds meddling in the garden, passing over and concealing the life-giving light from everything they engulf, like hope deferred makes the heart sick.  

The sting of estrangement still catches me off-guard some days.  Lovingly and tenderly, I attend to the weeds crowding around this little floribunda rose.  Smiling, I imagine my little Gold Bunny gifting me the first, hope-filled yellow blossoms of the season.  And sitting with the stillness on my front lawn, my heart is reassured. Adversity comes and goes. Not even our arrogance can circumvent the seasons; they simply are.  

And so, hard-pruned and filled with anticipation for the coming season’s fragrant flush, I drive the broom handle deep into the soil around each rose. Three times, just like my father taught me; filling each hole with nourishment to enrich the soil for the coming yield. The winter may be long, but spring will come, and my happy little floribunda rose will again flourish beneath rich emerald-green leaves, and apricot blossoms.