The Second Bloom

Margaret had lived in the same house for forty-one years, and for forty-one years the roses along the back fence had been white. Her husband, Tom, had planted them the week they moved in, and after he died, she'd kept them exactly as he left them — pruned the same way, fed the same fertilizer, blooming the same predictable white every June. It was her granddaughter, Aisha, who asked the question that cracked something open. "Grandma, don't you ever want to just... rip them out and plant something wild? Read More →