22 April 2022
The rose leans over the wall, away from us, shy. I gently grasp the branch and pull it towards us. She leans in, and smells.
— My nose is blocked. That creamy white, it’s lovely.
— I think you taught me to look at colour. I remember early on, you described a colour as mushroom, and to me it was beige.
The pause is heavy. I try a soft prompt:
— What do you think I’ve taught you?
— You’ve taught me to be very patient.
A light breeze ripples across the garden. The rose nods.