He likes trees and flowers.
So he built a garden for her.
She likes sunlight and stories.
So she set the table between the roses.
There they would sit,
in the summertime,
and watch the sun slowly sink into the soft mosses of the rolling hills.
And there they raised their children,
Many summers came over the lands
and made the roses blossom.
Many falls came, too, and picked the pedals off the buds.
Until winter came to envelop the fragile stems
ever single year.
When my father first planted the little rose twiglets many years ago, they were indeed fragile
and not at all yet accustomed to droughts and floods.
But with the care of their gardener, they withstood the weathers
Today, the many colorful rose bushes around our veranda are thicker than they’ve ever been before.
And now, my parents are leaving this garden to continue writing their story elsewhere.
I hope that whoever walks past these rose bushes in the coming months and years
with their sweet, intoxicating smell
and begins dreaming of the love that lasts forever.
The love that tends to its lovers
like Our Gardener tends to His Sprouts