Harmless Vagaries

Yellow roses capture my heart.

When I was a child my Grandpa Homer bought the empty lot next to his house and planted roses.

Just row after row of roses.

All kinds. Red, white, pink, yellow. I think, whatever was on sale, he bought and filled the lot with roses.

The first rose I remember him cutting off the bush and giving me was a yellow rose. Maybe there were others. I don’t know. But this is the first one I remember.

Given to me.

And since then, yellow roses to me are cheery, happy roses.

Some stories say they mean infidelity or jealousy, but I choose the newer meaning. Friendship.

My sister and I exchange yellow roses for every occasion.

Land that new job? Get that promotion? = Yellow rose

Anniversary? = Yellow rose

Sad? Car accident? Tonsils out? = Yellow rose

Death in the family? = Yellow roses

To me in the language of roses – yellow roses mean: I’m thinking of you. You are my friend.

At every home I have ever lived I have planted a yellow rose.

I hope the new owner knows: a friend once lived here.