A Stroll Through Time

A fragrant pink rose stands alone in a vase, held upright by the delicate glass lip. Water, cool and clear, rests at the bottom as the stem drinks up the last bit of nourishment before the rest evaporates into the air.

The rose’s petals have reached full bloom, reaching out toward the sides of the quiet, light-filled room. Each soft, vibrant petal is at its full expanse — resting like an open palm stretching, reaching, fulfilling the full measure of its creation.

I watch as the rose unfolds. The velvet petals start to darken at the edges. The delicate ends curl and ripple, slowly losing their vibrancy until all that is left of the rose is the green, thorny stem.

How long have I been examining this rose? I wonder. The distinct, rich, and rounded fragrance of the enticing flower begins to fade. I search the air, hungry for the bouquet but it has faded almost undetectable under the scent of the crisp, green stem.

“Grandpa must be helping me with the roses this year,” Mom said happily as she gazed out the window at the rose bushes dotting our back garden. “I’ve never had luck with them until now.” She explained.

He’d only been gone for a few months but in the garden, where he loved to spend his time perfecting the landscape of his home and ours, I smelled the distinct mix of cigarettes, O’Keefe’s Working Hand Cream, and wintergreen mints.

Mom wore grandpa’s work gloves as we planted Snapdragons in the desert soil. She said it was like holding his hands.

Snapdragons were my favorite because my mom showed me a clever little trick. If you pinch them at the belly, you can make them talk.

I loved Honeysuckle because you could harvest the little drop of gold from within the flower and suck the sweet nectar straight into your mouth. It was an afternoon snack along with a crabapple from the tree — tart and unripe, making my mouth twist and contort from the sour flesh.

We’ve had bee’s three times. Maybe four. “Wow! You guys have good luck. Most people never get bees.” The Beekeeper exclaimed as he removed the ugly mass of crepe paper from the desolate playhouse in our garden. He left us a bit of fresh honey and honeycomb before relocating the bees.

What a miracle honey is, I thought. Everything is magic if you allow it to be.

Like the river rock that wound its way through our garden, a testimony of the changing courses of the river, of the desert landscape that at times can seems so definite, so harsh; but in fact, it just moves slowly. Taking its time. There’s no rush when you’re a river in the desert.

Grandma buys jewelry from the Native Americans at the side of the road. “Now, watch for the Indian woman on the side of the road. She sells her jewellery out here,” She called from the front seat of the van.

Grandma and Grandpa bought a van for our Sunday drives and our monthly excursions up the mountain. It had a button to press to close the door. Something that would confuse my teacher after school when grandma came to pick me up.

Cheese and chocolate for an afternoon snack. Sometimes the chocolate would melt on the cheese. I complained to my grandma about it but she told me that it sounded pretty good to her. She was right. I’d do anything to share an afternoon snack with her again.

I pick up the vase and examine the flower. It’s untouched by time. Still vibrant and bright, with petals reaching toward the bright sun overhead. The scent returns and I take a deep breath in.

I thought it had died but its right here. Year after year, the bright pink rose returns. I take another deep breath. Nothing really disappears.