During past summers as I passed by the house with the rose garden. I would stop as I noticed the abundance of colour that would fill my eyes as a floral aroma drifted lightly from the roses.
I also like to remember the girl who played in the rose garden. She always looked scruffy, her dresses were too short and her hair was never tidy. Her plaits never stayed put and her ribbons fell undone.
She used to stand and watch the roses fall onto the ground as she pulled the flowers apart. After a while she’d stop to scoop up the petals and throw them up into the air. She’d laugh as they fluttered like confetti and landed in her hair. She didn’t seem to notice or care that stray petals fell onto her dress and remained stuck fast in the hem.
Now, my memory of her has grown more vague, it’s been so long since I watched her swirling round & round the garden, laughing and leaping from slab to slab.
It was always too late when her Granddad came out and saw the state of his roses. He didn’t notice her ripped ribbon stranded in the rose bush, or notice the petals in her hair, it was almost as if she was never there.