Rosebush Cottage was the old chicken coop my mom played in as a child. This rose grew in its windows... Or at least that is the story I remember. The rose disappeared into the brush surrounding my grandparents' house for many years, and was presumed dead, or simply forgotten, until one summer it fought its way to the edge and stuck an arm out. I spied it, and I said are YOU Rosebush Cottage?!, and I smelled it (citrus and spice), and I knew it had to be. I planted a piece in The Thicket, at my house.
My friend Rosie came to visit, and sniffed this rose, and said, that is an old rose, a real rose, from a grandmother's garden. And so it is, or close enough: from a grandmother's woods.
4 comments:
Your Grandma surely sent you a little piece of this rose. When stuff like this happens to me, I feel awed and loved.
What an utterly romantic story...it should be a children's book!
That's is really a wonderful story.
Indeed a nice way to remember your grandma.
I've been out of the blogosphere for 6months and I've missed these little gem posts like this.short little story.
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