“Ever wonder why roses have thorns?”

Not this guy again, the gardener thought. The old woman stood up from her deadheading. It was tiring work but gave her something to do at the assisted living home.

“Roses don’t actually have thorns,” Emma said, clips snipping off dead flowers. “They’re called prickles. And they have evolved them to keep herbivores from eating them. Because they don’t want to be bothered.” (She emphasized the word “bothered.”)

“Is that so!” George said. “I’m 80 years old and never knew that! Being around you makes me so much smarter!”

Sigh.

George put a hand out to one of the rose branches.

“Careful or you’ll hurt yourself!” Emma chided.

The gnarled fingers grabbed onto a thorn/prickle and snapped it off easily.

“Not if I’m careful,” he said, and showed the piece in his palm.

Emma looked at the pile of old faded roses stuffed in her apron for delivery to the compost pile. Their time has come and gone, she thought. She sighed again and looked up toward George. Not such a bad guy.

“Wanna go inside for coffee?”

“Thought you’d never ask,” he said, and held out his arm for her.

Note: it’s not a poem, Hope that’s ok. 🌹 🥀