All my roses die differently.
I have, I am counting in my mind, six cultivars.
My one tea rose, Honor, it’s called, holds on with great dignity. Determined to look like a flower come hell or high water until all’s done.
Glamis Castle, on the other hand, becomes translucent, petals leaning in upon each other as the blossoms collapse into something resembling tiny rose puddings. Neurasthenia, one might say. The variety is no longer offered commercially, which is a clue, but I appreciate her unabashed failure amidst sturdier compatriots.
My most recent purchase, Susan Williams-Elliot, above, grows tiny little blooms with pointy petals and a fragrance that’s out of this world. And then expires, without fuss, and grows another few. BTW, my groundcover shrubs flower so profusely and inconsequently that they’re like jellyfish. The community all; individuals, invisible. I will not even show a photo because they’d object if anyone got left out.
And then there’s Winchester Cathedral, which apparently still meets Austin’s standards, who releases all at once. If you happen to be looking out the kitchen window, you can even see the moment. It’s like when a balloon full of confetti pops. We expect a sound effect, a boom.
While my dear friends the Icebergs, for I have two of them, keep each other company on the stalk.
Best friends forever.
I wouldn’t want to buy dead roses, or try to cut them for a vase. Especially not for a vase. Flowers in the house are to pretend that we can catch a minute and hold on.
But if you happen to have a rose garden, and you can watch them bud, blossom, morning, noon, night, in sickness and in health, their death is beautiful and part of their character.
And yes, it’s possible that not going anywhere but here has shifted my perspective. I wish you all a good weekend, with my affection.
Note: My blog comment function has broken. Standard support won’t fix it, so I’m reaching out to advanced next week. In the meantime, if you’d like to post a comment, please email it to me at skyepeale@yahoo.com and I’ll put it in the body of the post, right below.
I do love this post, the idea of noticing the differences in the fading of the roses. In my own case, I see that I am much more observant of the world around me. I think there is some gift in this, in the way the process of nature unfolds here, in my normal suburban world, a world of which I now feel I was far less aware previously.
Mardel
–Jim
Gorgeous post. I suspect when I go it will be with my petals all in a heap.
I love your blog. I probably found you through Une Femme. I love your Sturdy WASP meets San Francisco punk aesthetic. Too many of the 50+ blogs speak to an aesthetic that I just cannot identify with and look far too much like my mother (I just turned 50, still have young kids and jeans are my life). And I love that you aren’t monetized up one side and down the other. I understand that some people are making a living off this and I don’t begrudge them that, but I appreciate the lack of constant pop-ups and sidebars and the presence of more substantive posts, the “here’s what I did today and how I chose to express myself” rather than “here’s the clothes I put on for this picture to sell you and now I will go change into what I *really* wear.” Also, your writing is gorgeous, and I like that you write about things *other* than clothes.
Sorry if I’m fangirling all over you. In this time of crazy not-normal it is steadying to see regular posts from my favorite bloggers, to trust that the roses will bloom again and that we will all get through this one way or another.
Renee