The first time I remember receiving roses it was in the traditional dozen red bouquet. At the time I was touched, I loved the old-fashioned meaning behind the elegant flowers. I pointedly chose to ignore that the bouquet was an apology masked in love.
I didn’t like roses for a long while after that.
But I had no objection to the wild roses that appeared in the brambles, hardy and pink, with delicious rosehips in the fall. Over time I grew fond of these roses, their tenacious nature and their simplicity. The wild roses of the Pacific Northwest, where I live, are quite adaptable to their environment and are bold in their presence.
They don’t need much to be so much.
Years later I was proposed to in a Rose Garden, in the winter when everything was dormant yet full of potential. The name of the Rose was to be my own--mine and my husband’s. We are not elegant tea roses, that’s a fact! Rather I feel like this name change reflects my nature at heart, especially when I hear my sister comment; ‘Yo...