The rose bush

I'm sure I've mentioned here before how much Jill loved roses. Pink and yellow ones were her favorites. She had rose bushes growing in her yard and she took meticulous care of them, and she loved those rose bushes like they were her children. I have many fond memories of stopping by her house and finding her in her rose garden, all covered from head to toe in dirt and sweat, with a look of total contentment on her face. That rose garden was her solace - her happy place. It was where she went when she needed to be alone, to think, to find peace. Her rose bushes were beautiful, and produced the most vibrant and colorful roses I've ever known.

When Jill died and we put her house on the market, it made me sad to think of leaving her rose bushes there to be cared for by someone else. No one could ever care for them the way Jill did. They would be attacked by weeds and insects. They wouldn't be watered and fed with the kind of care she gave them, if at all. They would be neglected, and maybe even destroyed if the new owners didn't want them. So before we sold her house, I dug one of them up and brought it to our house and planted it in our back yard in Jill's memory. Our yard isn't an ideal location for rose bushes - we're high up in the mountains and the winters up here can be brutal. We're surrounded by trees, so there isn't enough direct sunlight to keep rose bushes happy, and our soil is very acidic. I knew the bush wouldn't thrive here, but I brought one here anyway. Jill had poured her heart and soul into her roses, and keeping this one bush was like having a little piece of her growing in our yard. It gave me comfort at a time when I needed it.

Unfortunately, I'm not a very good gardener, and rose bushes take a LOT of work to maintain properly. The bush survived its first winter here, but it didn't look very healthy by spring. I watered it, weeded it, fed it, and sprayed it with insect repellent, but it kept getting sicker. I sought advice from professional rose growers and did everything they said, but before long it was clear - Jill's rose bush was dying. One of the professionals diagnosed it with a disease of the roots (can't remember the name right now) which was incurable and terminal.

And then she suggested something: before it's too late, cut a piece off of the bush and put it in water until it forms its own roots, and then plant it in a pot. Because the disease was in the roots, the new piece would free itself from the disease by growing its own set of roots. Plus, being in a pot means I can move the pot to wherever it will get the most sunlight, and I can even bring it inside in the winter. Knowing how much sentimntal value this bush held for me, she said, "It might not be the same as having the original plant, but it will be like caring for its child."

And those words hit me like a lightning bolt.

Jill died of an incurable disease and left her child in my care. And then her rose bush followed the same path. What beautiful symmetry. The symbolism and parallels with Katie's life were striking. The rose bush would live on through its child; and the child would survive and build new roots and grow and blossom and thrive. Just like Katie.

So the piece that I planted now lives in a pot. In the spring I take the pot to the cemetary and place it next to Jill's grave, where it gets plenty of sunlight. And in the winter, I bring it home and sit it on the window sill in our kitchen. I just brought it home again yesterday and it's sitting on the window sill now looking healthy and beautiful. It's been 4 years now, and it has thrived. Just like Katie. Another little piece of Jill lives on.

I'll never forget