I have a way with roses.
Mostly, I kill them.
The problem is that I like roses, but roses would rather die than hang around me.
Now, at the start of another spring, I’m again caught between desire and common sense.
“Give your roses full sun”, the gardening books said.
So I planted my roses in sunny places.
Finally, one rose gave me hope.
It bloomed. It survived three winters. And bloomed profusely.
And then it died.
One spring, the smell of a rose caught my nose. It was a bushy pink rose that grew on tall thorny canes.
The woman in the garden centre said it was a shrub rose, and was “indestructible”.
Music to my ears.
It was one of those times when hope triumphs over experience.
I promptly bought three.
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