My Grandma Emma Rose loved gardening and growing roses. She sold them at the local Farmer’s Market.
Playfully, she’d say, “Roses are as pretty as me. My momma said so.”
One day, a fella came by with some mint plants. He told her it could fetch her more money than roses. They grew tall and sturdy. She said it made a real nice sweet tea.
Abandoned and neglected after she passed, I decided to clean up her greenhouse. The mint had taken over everywhere. Ironically, it wasn’t mint but Cannabis.
Looks like Grandma Emma Rose was ahead of her time.
The ‘Get Well’ cards and balloons filled the dining room. Marta was well-liked by all.
But, her diagnosis was grim. It was a rare form of cancer. It had spread throughout her body. If it hadn’t been for COVID, she wouldn’t have known until she died.
We haven’t seen any family visitors. Has anyone called her family?
There is no family.
Nonsense, everyone has a family.
She does not. How long does she have to live?
Perhaps, a month.
Good Odds.
How so?
A neighbor found her during a well-check visit. She arrived here as an attempted suicide.
It’s weathered, empty, and distant among the trees.
It calls me to its window, where the sun glints off pieces of broken glass.
Some are hanging loosely to the window pane, but most are strewn across the floor, mixed with rocks and leaves.
On the side of the house towards the back, a rickety unsteady crumbling shack stands, a testament to the days when homegrown fruits and vegetables were sold seasonally.
I feel nostalgic, as I walk the grounds taking in each detail of this skeleton of a home.
Because it’s my room and I’ll keep it whatever way I wish.
But Auntie Helga will be staying in your room while she visits.
And, your point?
Well, Auntie needs space to do her scrapbooking. You know how much she enjoys her hobby. She needs space.
If I tidy up, I’ll never find my stuff again. I’m a writer; we need our itty bits of paper, post-its, and books to complete our stories. Besides, Aunt Helga will only be here a week.
The funeral was exactly the way my grandmother wanted.
She pre-paid and planned it all before she died.
Always the forward-thinking woman, no one would be able to leave any details out.
The rose garden was to be her final resting place.
She’d say, “Where else would I want to be? These roses have helped me create beautiful paintings that will live on in the homes of many long after I’m gone.”
Her garden was magical. She could grow colorful varieties.
I’m sure she’s looking down at us and saying, “Pick up a paintbrush and make magic happen.”
*****A similar photo by Ted Strutz was posted on Friday Fictioneers back in 2017. I wrote this poem for that image. I didn’t get many views or comments. I thought I’d edit it a bit and add it to this photograph by Dale Rogerson. Sorry about the two extra words.
It was a cloudy overcast day. A cool breeze blew as Bobby looked down at Jimmy.
“Hi, Jimmy,” he said in a low voice.
“Where didthese huge boulders and rocks come from?”
Silence surrounded the space between them.
“I’m sorry, Jimmy”.
We were two young college kids. It was Spring Break. We all thought it would be fun to drive down to the beach. It was wild when the girls arrived. What a surprise!
**********Spring Break is in full swing here in Florida. The beaches are packed shoulder to shoulder with teens celebrating. The drinking has gotten so bad in South Miami that the bars have a 6:00 pm last call on drinks and a midnight curfew has been issued by the county commissioners.
Inside the Mind of Isadora 