I once received in high school a gift of a dozen roses, eleven red, one white. They were from a boy who thought I was someone worth giving roses to, and he bought them for me because he knew they were my favorite flower. What he didn’t know, and I didn’t know then, either, was that I love roses from the garden far more than roses from the florist. Roses from the garden open up fat and wide. Commercial roses never move past a loose bud stage. A freshly clipped rose smells heady and romantic. Half the joy of roses in the home are the way they scent a room. Store roses are for looks only, so I have experienced.
But he didn’t know this, and neither did I.
He knew I mentioned my love of roses regularly. Repeatedly. Annoyingly often, I’ll bet. He knew that when we studied the work of� Gustavo Adolfo B�quer in fourth period advanced Spanish class and were assigned to write a poem inspired by B�quer’s post-romantic style, I wrote about the end of a love affair, using charred, fallen rose petals for symbolism. Don’t ask me how the rose petals charred. Too much sun? Or how I, someone who had never dated or been kissed knew about love affairs, broken or otherwise. Family Ties episodes?
Somehow I managed, and that awful post-romantic poem was good enough for the teacher to read out loud to the class. And he, fifteen years old and looking to make an impression, noticed I loved roses.
The following year we had a huge falling out, and for a while I hated roses all because of him. I told my boyfriend senior year that under no circumstance did I ever want to see a rose darken my doorstep. He had no idea why, but considering the price of roses, he didn’t argue.
Time moves forward; you grow up. I did, which is how I came to love roses again–but mainly the kind that grow in gardens. This much I know now. What I don’t know is if that boy ever sees a rose and thinks of me, fourth period advanced Spanish class, and that ridiculous poem about love and roses.
My Nan grows the most amazing roses – an entire garden of them. When I was much younger, for the longest time I didn’t believe that they were roses, because they didn’t look much like what I’d seen in the shops ;)
Aah, young love. I’m sure he does think of you … though he’d never admit it … it’s the reason he’s never given another girl red or white roses. Sigh.
And I cannot wait for our roses to bloom!!!
I love roses. We have two small bushes in the front of our house and, despite the fact that I think they are downright UGLY when not in bloom, once those blooms start coming out…ahhhhhhhh….heaven.
store-bought roses i simply cannot do. they are too fussy, and the baby’s breath is enough to do me in. but garden roses, like my grandpa used to grow in his backyard? i would give anything to have a bouquet of those right now.
Why all red and one white?
I love your stories, Jules.
I always used to say I didn’t like roses, but I realized I just don’t like store bought roses. There are few things more heavenly than true garden roses.
You have to tell me who you are talking about. I don’t remember this (insert shocked face).