The yellow Roses
By Ann Edall-Robson
“What are her favourite flowers?"
"For the prom, M’am, I want to bring her a corsage.”
“Yellow roses.” Her Mother had told him.
A yellow rose, any yellow rose. A poignant reminder of her first love. She had been trying to grow them for decades. Thorns and leaves were the result of her nurturing.
“How have you been?”
That Yankee drawl she knew to be his, had been the reply when she answered the telephone.
He sat on the deck smiling, watching her tend the beautiful yellow blooms.
How did the roses know that they had found each other?
"For the prom, M’am, I want to bring her a corsage.”
“Yellow roses.” Her Mother had told him.
A yellow rose, any yellow rose. A poignant reminder of her first love. She had been trying to grow them for decades. Thorns and leaves were the result of her nurturing.
“How have you been?”
That Yankee drawl she knew to be his, had been the reply when she answered the telephone.
He sat on the deck smiling, watching her tend the beautiful yellow blooms.
How did the roses know that they had found each other?
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