12
Roses
We either get picked or wither.
***
THERE was once a garden in front of my father’s bookstore that I loved tending to. While being amply visited by customers and students, back during those young days, I used to love the parade of butterflies and bees flying from one flower to another. However, there was one flower that I am not fond of.
“Father, why do the rose cuttings make themselves so hard to propagate?”
SUPRESSING my heavy breathing from all the flights of stairs I took to get here, I shut my eyes and focused on my contracting diaphragm fighting for a massive exhale that I cannot yet let go.
I know that they had not seen me for I do not see any string that raced up to me so I slow-counted in my head to ease my shock away before I looked around for a better
