Free Write: The Rose

 

Rick and I ordered a breakfast of egg, cheese, ham, salad and juice at Bronzette in France before starting our Free Write. Julia sent us this photo, which I suspect was from her garden in Geneva as the prompt. As usual we had ten minutes to write.

Julia's Free Write

Wandering down memories’ path, she goes back 70 years.

She wasn’t quite 6 when her family moved into their new home, the one in which, in the end, she spent the longest stretch of her childhood: a whole 8 years.

She can picture everything still in great detail: the long driveway down which she learned to ride a bike – never a great success that one – to skate – much more successfully; the large front yard that she occasionally got to mow for payment; the raised front door with huge hydrangeas on both sides; the middle yard with a pergola and brick wall; the “back” yard with swings, avocado trees to climb in, a play house where one could pretend to live, an ivy patch that all were afraid of – who knows what could be lurking?

Her mother loved gardening, above all her roses.  Roses that ran along the brick wall, blooming most of the year.

Today all that and more flitted through her mind when here, where she has lived for over 40 years, she cut the last rose of the season.

 Rick's Free Write

Every year in the late spring, as the temperatures finally changed from chill to pleasant, a single rose appeared in the garden. Tall, proud, a brilliant crimson, with the softest petals and a rounded fullness that suggested perfection.

It was not allowed to be picked. That was for other, lesser flowers in Gran’s garden. Zinnias, tulips, even the lantana was fair game to end up on the formal dining room table. But never THE ROSE.

It had first appeared now ten years ago after a particularly hard winter. Hard for the weather, hard mentally. Gran was alone for the first time after 56 years with Paw-paw. He had always been robust, healthy, but suddenly he took ill and was gone in a matter of days. Shock to all of us, but especially Gran.

She had recovered by starting a garden, and it both occupied her time and gave her joy. Especially the rose, which grew out of Paw-paw’s ashes.

D-L'S Free Write

"A rose is a rose is a rose." Charlotte found Gertrude Stein's writing even more boring than Ernest Heminway's. This was her first college course in 23 years.

She listened to the prof drone on. The hard wooden chair with half table attached was uncomfortable at best.

The building where the course was held was the oldest on campus, contrasting with the new white cement ones.

***

"Shit!" Charlotte thought as she pulled into her driveway to see Jason's car. He shouldn't be home at noon. 

Before getting out, she shoved her texts and notebook under her car seat. 

"Where the hell were you?" he yelled.

"I returned some books to the library."

"You didn't take your phone. I told you to always take it." Of course she hadn't taken it. She didn't want him to he able to track her.

She'd skimped and manipulated the budget to get enough money to take the course, her first step to freedom from Jason.

Better she'd taken a computer course. She would need a job after she ran away.

Julia has written and taken photos all her life and loves syncing up with friends.  Her blog can be found: https://viewsfromeverywhere.blogspot.com/  Rick is an aviation journalist and publisher of www.aviationvoices. com        D-L has had 17 fiction and non fiction books published. Check out her website at: https://dlnelsonwriter.com