I Can’t Stop Thinking About Roses
Sometimes “hope” is not the thing with feathers, but the thing with petals.
My apartment is a jungle but I can’t stop thinking about roses. My mother sends visual dispatches out of the blue from Calistoga and I’m sucked into a flurry of wild pastels. Blushing, sherbet petals unfurling, blooms climbing a wooden, moss-covered trellis and weaving around rusty posts. Photos reveal milky folds against glossy leaves and barbed stems. I’ve walked by those vines before, but today, sitting seventy miles away, my mind is preoccupied with them.
The fascination catches me a little off guard. I’m not crazy about roses, to be honest. Cliché, overrated, predictable. A symbol of forgotten anniversaries and generic romance. Still, I feel starved for the color they bring, the vibrance, the unexpected burst of vitality. I live in a world of green — philodendrons hanging from windows, pothos cascading down kitchen cabinets, schefflera shooting up to the ceiling. I’m surrounded by lush leaves. I could stare at them for hours. And the digital roses now on my phone? I could stare at those for a long time too.
Inside my houseplants are thriving, and outside roses are growing. Trees are full, their branches are strong. The fact that I’ve spent nearly eight weeks indoors can’t make me forget that somewhere there are roses I should stop and smell, if not again, then for the first time. The things I once ignored and now hunger for don’t make me sad. They give me life. They give me hope. They sustain my dreams of a future garden, inspire thoughts of what I’d do with a backyard. They let me know that there are still things I have yet to discover.
Whether you’re sitting in a twelve-story apartment building or immersed in the great outdoors, remind yourself that there is beauty ahead. Remember that these distant things will be there to comfort you when you finally open your door. And hopefully, that should be of some comfort to you now.