1947: This late roses make their annual appearance at the house at 1947 on the street of my youth. They are outside Grandma's house, and I am not allowed to pick or prune, transplant or take these lovelies, descendants of my great-grandmother's era.
This was Big Mama' home and these her roses. Sacred and set apart, I take pictures of them in the hopes of conveying that holiness.
The sentinels of these roses are strong women of an age where the expected silence required they have both petals and thorns.
These women survived the Great Depression in this house together as the only women in a brood of five. They tended these flowers whose eight decades testify to their intestinal fortitude.
I want to write forever. I want to take your chin in my hand and bid your eyes take in these roses, this house...but 1947 belongs to me and to mine. So I snap the picture and edit it like an amatuer hoping that you will at least remember seeing these last strong blooms.