
When Emma was born her great aunt Joan and great uncle Sam gave her a rose bush. We planted it near the back steps. She adores it, and always has. She has never forgotten that it’s her personal rose bush.
Yesterday, Emma’s rose was the last flower standing. I love this small, bright drop among the sea of brown and grey.
This morning we woke to a silvery frost-covered lawn. And the rose … she’s still hanging on.


