2017
two thousand seventeen
Twenty-Seventeen
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Probably 50 years ago, Dad planted a rose bush near the house that he and Mom built, with help from their parents and other relatives. Through the years, that rose bush weathered the storms and seasons, but was never sheltered.
About 20 years ago Dad transplanted the rose next to the east side of the house, where it has enjoyed both the morning sun and the protection from the west winds.
Each year the flowers that blossom and bloom on that rose bush are such a vivd and deep red that it absolutely attracts everyone's eyes and their attention as they visit Mom and the family homestead.
When Dad was alive, he would frequently take Mom's scissors and cut one or two of those red rose blooms and place it in a glass nearly full of water, then center them on the kitchen table as a surprise for her. She loved the roses and the surprises that Dad left for her when he was alive. Such a love they shared.
Today, the rose still blooms and Mom now cuts the flowers for herself. But Dad's love still lives and grows there, in the form of those red roses, from the spring through the fall. And, it is brightest, most vibrant and fragrant during the summer: a never ending form of "summer love."

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