A dear friend and I had a very restful routine. Together with her Dachshund, Skipper, we would walk among the roses in the cool of the evening. Skipper would explore a large bed of Hostas, disappearing among them, snuffling and searching, until he emerged on the other side. He never found anything, but felt he needed to look.
Our clockwise walk would take us to lone roses, individually planted. Nothing formal there. I remember a deep red rose, Mr. Lincoln, and others whose names escape me now. But the one which stands out in my memory was the pure white blossom of the White Knight, with its rolled outer petals giving it a spikey appearance.
My mother was in real estate and once visited a little lady who was about to move. Her biggest regret was giving up her tiny back yard retreat. In the midst of a busy city she had created a fenced in refuge, with green fencing and a porch swing. When seated there the city seemed to disappear, and she could be alone with her thoughts.
Both of these quiet places are gone. Someone backed over Skipper. His exploring days are over, and the properties long ago sold. I yearn for a place where there is no more death,and no endings, where the beautiful white roses will never fade.
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