A rose is not a rose

There are roses and then there are roses. Anyone with eyeballs knows what I'm talking about. These fall into the latter category and exist on an entirely different planet than anything wrapped in say it with flowers paper and a packet of food. Dripping with petals, full of beetles and picked a moment before from the garden- these are Gertrude Stein's roses and Shakespeare's too. Do I even need to talk about the smell? It's everything.

I scoured the bushes to find the slightly past prime ones, a little rusty around the edges, just to feel okay with clipping so many. Rose thorns often carry bacteria so most every prick will develop a small infection and throb for days, it's a joint sacrifice for the both of us. I shy away from decadence in most forms, but I am powerless in front of a rose bush. I clip and clip unabashedly. The next few days are spent bringing your little bouquet from room to room as you go about your business, periodically smelling them when the scent fades from memory. 

Post-script: I have written a small piece on my girlhood fascination with roses for the newly launched book Summer Goals. Please take a look.