/

for one year. lost.

lost. for one year.

father’s swan song

daughter’s mourning

/

Not all roses have thorns,

I remember the way those words were spoken,

spoken like the scent of rosemary freshly cut with such certainty and tenderness.

A certainty and tenderness that felt like those words had rather come from the place of memory, and I was left speechless and again wondered if we’d been here before.

I looked upon home where roses without thorns grew like weeds and I fell to my knees as that certainty and tenderness tore my heart open like only a rose without thorns can. I lay motionless for a long while and as the petals of the dying roses fell, I became shrouded in the memory of before, and what is yet to be.