Rose Street

The florist doesn't grow flowers

He cuts them

He makes them look pretty and perfect for the final moments of their lives, and sells them for a quick memory that fades with each petal drop

I always saw you as a gardener

Someone who sewed the seeds of his life in the soil he stood on

Watching blooms and wilts like pendulum swings

Using the seasons as a metronome

You heard the music in the mud and earth

And saw symphony in the springtime

Now I see the flower you truly lived as

When you were young

You were planted in a crowded garden

With three flowers climbing high enough above you that you learned to stop seeking sunlight

And share what little was given when you could

You may not have known this, but your roots began to grow tighter around each sibling that stood above and below you

When my father was born

He was planted in your shadow, and never felt more comfort

He clung to you like ivy vines wrapping buildings in perfect silhouette

And you let him leech sunlight and life lessons from the overly chlorophylled leaves you passed on like hand me downs

They always fit him just right

Eventually, each flower began to bloom

And as they moved to new gardens and skyscraper windowsills

You stayed behind in the home you’d known and kept the beds warm and welcoming for if they ever need come back

You kicked my father out, and told him his roots belonged somewhere he could let them grow endlessly

You taught him to find connections in the soil you share with those planted around you

And he carries that with him to this day

His roots have turned tree trunks and they travel from country to country like a road map tattooed on the earth he’s walked

But he never left you alone

Always kept a pot next to your garden for when you would have him

And stood taller when sharing your old planter boxes than anywhere else

You taught him to make a garden

And plant himself with someone who saw his petals when he only saw leaves

To sew seeds in the sun so he could pass on the lessons you’d taught him

And that he’d learned through the grapevine

When he first introduced you to us

You opened your home and dusted off the nursery to let our two roots grow

And we learned to bloom in the shadows you created, like our father before us

You never realized nobody was looking at the sun above you

Just the beauty in your petals

I had never met someone who lived on a street named after them

14 Rose

The only one I’ve ever known who trimmed his own thorns to share more space in his garden

You thrived when the planters were full at holidays and special occasions

My entire life, has been shaped by the way you learned to bloom and thrive 

And the impact your gardening had on my family’s existence

In July of my 21st season

Of my sister’s 24th season

Of my father’s 62nd season

I stared at the rose sitting on the small wooden box you were encased in

I watched more people than I knew existed in your small town full of empty gardens 

Circle around a monument of ash with a floral signature that had no roots

I felt the cold rain you had sheltered us from when we first began to flower

And knew the pain you endured to protect us from it

Roses have this beautiful color in their petals

But it fades faster than any other the moment it gets cut

Your last wish was to be scattered with the soil we continued in

So you could always support our lives

My uncle was a unique rose

Tall enough to provide shade for anyone who wanted

And short enough to share the spotlight and earth he lived in

He was friends with everyone and greeted even the florist with a smile on the day he came calling

He died as he lived

Connected to us all even at the very end

And loved like a gardener who treats his flowers as family

He never told us the florist was coming by

We just saw the rose on his box

With no thorns 

And no roots left

Just color as it faded