Through the Roses

Through the Roses

I look at my dad through the roses. Here are two photos I took of him. How the roses recall the sweetness of memory. How memory revealed now in the present moment has thorns. Thorns that prick. See now, there he is. Look carefully. There he is. With all the array of his brilliance, his jokes, his poetry, his lightening rod conversation that creates amazing and impossible intuitive jolts only he can fashion with his anvil. And yes, remember the thorn of his quick temper.
All there. I look through the roses, remembering. Honoring. All that was. All that remains. Memory, sweetness, thorns and the beguiling scent that remains