There were three sisters, all roses and of a beauty that let other flowers look pale. The pink one although the oldest was the shyest of the three. Her pink was subtle and pastel but shining like a light in the fresh green.
She grew up with the same delicacy that was her nature, enfolding slowly and without drama. Just a good young rose.
She was so beautiful that she caused strange emotions in some humans who saw her growing.
She created the desire to wipe away any insect that would want to sit on her virgin pink leaves and to punish that ant, that dirty trespasser seriously.
Even when she was beyond that age about which you should not speak with roses and women.... her beauty was still blinding and unbearable.
She died quietly and only then you could see that there were two cousins behind her who had gone unnoticed their whole life.
The end was a strong contrast to her life.
Her younger sister-rose was bold and bright and had chosen a naughty and indecent red. Nobody of her ancestors had ever displayed such a shameless red.
Opening quick and living quick. But we have not even seen her pass away so much did she outlive herself. One day she was just gone.
But we remember the youngest one for her stubbornness. She was determined to show the resilience and the strength of a young rose bud. And she would not sway. Or move or look for another way. It was her will to grow straight up into heaven. Heaven the one thing that can not be conquered.
But she out- did the others with her death. What she could not attain in life she reached in death - extravagance. And while living her last days, when the pressure of fighting against the wall was gone and her leaves were free, she was constantly humming the Stones song " DEAD FLOWERS" under my window. I will never forget her. She was a tough little rose.
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