Blood Sisters: Ode to My New Friend the Rosebush

I made friends with a rosebush today. At first I was hesitant, warily eyeing her in the front yard, smoking a cigarette and squinting in the sun. I didn't really know where to begin. I'm not much of a gardener, but I just reached out, cracked off one brown leaf, and became instantly obsessed. Gloveless, I plunged into the brier and started pulling off her leaves and buds and branches, thorns be damned. I felt the pain register and even pulled a few out of my fingers and hands as I went along. It was hot out, and I was in the direct sun in my front yard, with afternoon traffic whizzing by and people no doubt staring at me, doggedly pruning this weak pink rosebush like a madwoman on the corner of 49th and Charlestown.

I say "her" because a rosebush just seems like a plant that is a woman. At the core, she's very intertwined and complex and stiff and stubborn, impossible to touch without getting hurt, nay, bleeding. But when properly cared for, one of the most beautiful, colorful, sweetest-smelling things you've ever been fortunate enough to be near on this godforsaken earth. An infuriating paradox.

Anyways, I was hurting and stinging and sweating and pulling off dead rose parts everywhere. Every time I'd step back thinking I was done, some section of brown would call to me and I'd plunge back in. I was bending down branches to get to others, extracting my hair and sweatshirt and arms from thorn pulls, and I wanted to be angry at her for being so hard to take care of and for leaving my hands and fingers in splintery red shambles. But there was this one small, lovely, "flower shop-worthy" hot pink rose on a perfect stem, sprouting right out of the center of the dead branches, and I suddenly felt a great affinity with this frustratingly beautiful plant. I adopted her as my charge and welcomed her into my utterly inexperienced care.

Every lady needs a good pruning, myself included. Even though it hurts to dig in there and you're specifically designed not to be messed with, it's healthier to cull the dry, dead leaves and branches and former blooms that are just dead weight and a drain on your life's energies. Sometimes parts of you stop growing and turn brown and brittle and need to fall off on their own, but sometimes you need a little help with the pulling. It's hard to find someone who's willing to embrace the pain along with the pretty, and a good strong wind is too rare to be of much hope.

I bet by next spring she and I will both bloom bigger.