Roses Persist

There are two rose bushes that live on the east side of my house that were there when I moved in. They are beautiful and strong, they live on and grow high despite their neglectful current owner. I don't know anything about plants, sadly, but I know they are not knock-out roses. They are pure and simple, white-streaked pink blooms. I love them.

They were planted by a man who lived in my house many years ago, the second owner of the house which was built in the 1920s. Mr. Simpson was his name. Simpson was his first name, I have no idea what his last name was. He was a proper Southern Gentleman. It is his legacy that, still, everyone on the street is Mr. or Ms. First Name to all of the children. By all reports, he was a very good man. Helpful and compassionate. He had a huge car in the 1950s, apparently, and a late night parking mishap was the event prompting the larger bump out of the garage. Mr. Simpson was a well-liked man and has friends who were willing to help him with his house as he got older. These are the friends that helped to build the ridiculous kitchen that Patrick and I love/hate. It sold us on the house but is very... amateur.

Moreover, Mr. Simpson was a well-loved man. There were two Mrs. Simpsons of the house and he outlived each of them. He loved those women, my neighbor says. He took care of each of the women as their bodies became ill and their spirits drifted away from him. He planted a rose bush for each one after she died and tended them as carefully as he tended to his beloved Mrs. Simpsons. I think that the roses live so well now because they had such a loving start, watered by Mr. Simpson's sweat and perhaps his tears, thinking of his wives.