I plucked the last rose from the garden and decided to follow its stages from beginning to end. Then I asked? When does anything begin to be beautiful? Does beauty end? Does the aging process negate beauty? Does the life cycle we witness of flowers mirror our lives: do we come back?

So much for polemics. Here’s what I saw. This hybrid rose had been choking from old Irises, weeds and garden clutter. Once removed, I found a new shoot and then the bud. What is living does not want to die. This rose changes color during its stages.

To the apex of life.

And then …

While I was creating this post the nursing home called to set up a Facetime call from Robert. He kept knocking the iPad over, scratching on it. But I could see him, he looked grisled and unkempt. Terribly unfamiliar. “He needs a shave badly,” I told the aide. And I am thinking, also his eyebrows and those nails!

I was hoping to get over there in person to visit and pay his bill but as of now I am not sure what will be. So I spoke to the wall behind him, to the curtains, next to him and to him, in his visual absence. The monologue.

I said that a gentleman was coming over to see his 78 rpm record collection, that we had seen him play with his band at Louis Armstrong House…that Caroline bought her wedding dress…that the wedding was next October…

And he said,

“I’m on overload.”

He repeated:

“I’m on overload.”

Samantha, the aide returned to check on him and to adjust the iPad which was lying prone on the sheet.

I asked Robert, “how can I help you?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

I told Samantha. “Mr. Robert, what do you mean, you are on overload?”

“It means there is too much information.” I could see, hear, he was getting agitated. I was throwing too much at him, assuming he was able to process it all, hoping he was able to process it all.

So, we ended the call. Samantha went to get another iPad to play music for Robert.

I went back to work on my flower photos, thinking about the short visit and how much we are like flowers:

We begin as hopeful buds, and grow, then bloom in such beauty and splendor, such richness; we are amazing.

As time passes.

Our petals begin to sag and fall. Where they once were are the wizened remains of hair and memory, of dreams and strength: What was once.

Stems weaken and become twisted, unable to support, to stand. When the last petals fall, all that remains is the stem, the backbone, and tiny branches upon which a few tough leaves hang on, despite being mottled by rust and air.

They are stubborn, they refuse to let go.

Just as Robert is taking leave.

[iPhone photography: 11Pro Max]

📌The series starts here:
Part 1: And The Band Played On … a mother’s life, a daughter’s journey

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