My rosebush is blooming in a riot of bright pink blossoms.
I hate pink.
And I’m not a particular fan of roses, either.
But my grandmother loved them, and it seems wrong to remove a plant from my garden just because it isn’t my favorite.
So, I leave it there, fertilized with the co-mingled ashes of my grandparents, and a healthy dash of familial love.
And I watch it bloom.
And I think of how my grandmother used to steal cuttings of other people’s bushes.
And I miss her less.