“But there, climbing up the whitewashed brick walls of the garage, is the rose of my dreams, a rose so utterly charming, so delicate and fleeting that I can forgive him his screeching reds and wishy-washy purples. It is rarely without a flower, its petals open wide, in shades of cream, faded fawn and soft pink, and here and there a crimson petal or two. Each summer it is as if a hundred butterflies have come to rest on the wall, baking in the late-afternoon sun. (This rose, chinensis Mutabilis, is to this day my favorite.)”