To my grandmother, every rose was a living poem. She didn’t just grow roses — she nurtured them like children. Her hands moved through the garden with purpose and gentleness.

She taught me to whisper to roses, feed them banana peels, and prune them only under the morning sun. She believed gardening was part ritual, part conversation with the earth.

Passed-Down Petals

Her garden had heirloom varieties passed down through generations — pink floribundas from her mother, fiery climbers from her aunt. I now grow them too, as if carrying family history in bloom.

A rose bush may not speak, but in its bloom, it remembers who loved it first.