While I generally love all flowers, I’ve come to hate roses. I hate their uncomplicated beauty. Their cliché symbolism of love. Their built-in protection. Their delicate scent that becomes pungent and oppressive if enough are shoved into a room. They’re a challenge, Grandma Lou used to say, gently pinching a stem between her fingers before snipping the flower free. The thorns are what really make a rose beautiful. Their blooms are made all the sweeter for the care and tenderness it takes to reach them.
