Summer Song
B F Jones
Victor kneels by the large pot, trowel in hand; he’s removed the turf around the rose bush, unveiling the roots. He puts on the thick gloves and grabs the central branch with both hands and pulls, dislodging the rest of the root from the constricting pot. There. He rises up again, rubbing the small of his back. He can spot a couple of very small buds; in a few weeks the bush will be covered in flowers.
Victor takes a sip of the tea he’s left cooling on the patio table, then sets off to plant the bush in the sunny corner of the garden. That had been Hilda’s plan. He lowers the rose bush and pats the turf tight around it, waters. There you go, Hilda, Summer Song roses, rich dark coral, like we had at our wedding, 40 years ago.
Victor loves gardening. It’s the only m
