rose·bush | \ ˈrōz-ˌbu̇sh
a shrub that produces roses
I grew in a two bedroom townhouse on a street named Sunrise.
Below the bedroom window facing the street, a rose bush grew. I didn’t care much for those roses.
I hated the strong protruding thorns that met my flesh anytime I got too close.
The smell of roses didn’t conjure imagery of grandeur. Rather the smell of sweat — from a hardworking man laboring to feed four children. Reminders of hungry nights and the absence of a progenitor. No, I was not fond of roses.
As an adult, my distaste for roses seemed to extend to all flowers. Until I became a hiker. I grew to appreciate and marvel at the magnificence of plants, flowers especially roses.
As my relationship with the natural world evolved, the relationships with those around me did as well.
I’ve connected with something that was missing and that relationship is flourishing.
I have a rose bush of my own — an artificial one that will live forever.
Although my love for roses has grown — my green thumb is nonexistent.
I was reminded of that rose bush on Sunrise street in writing about my first day hiking the Superior Hiking Trail: