In my old neighborhood in Japan, there was a garden that would erupt with roses at the start of every May.
There were dozens of varieties. Pink-purple ones the size of a human head hung next to red-orange ones so bright they looked aflame. I’d go for springtime walks to see their heavy heads bobbing together in the breeze.
My husband and I were sticking our noses into the cool creamy roses protruding from the chain-link fence when the gardener came out, clipped a bouquet, and handed it to us.
She’d worked so hard on them, yet gave them away so easily. Was it because she knew the petals would soon scatter, like they did every year?
I often wondered what it was like to work all year for one perfect temporary month. I used to think it was romantic but sad, nothing I’d ever do. Now I envy her.