The Rose

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It’s just a picture of a rose, but it has so much meaning.  This rose reminds me of a friend named Anne who lived in a coach house in Baltimore.  She grew roses by the hundreds in the front of her quaint little home on Bolton Hill.  There was a gated wrought iron fence around her property that highlighted the beauty of the rose bushes. People would always stop as they passed her home.  Sometimes someone would open the iron gate and sit awhile on her porch while she served lemonade.  Anne was a quiet soul who suffered in silence.  She was a powerhouse at the office, often walking to and from work past the resting place of Edgar Allan Poe.  She worked tirelessly while she put her husband through law school and had his two children to adore him.  After he became important, she lost him to a friend; her children became rebellious, and she never sat on the porch again.  One night she had a glass of wine and a sleeping pill.  The roses died that year and I never saw her again. I know she has a rose garden in Heaven, a porch to sit on, and a cold pitcher of lemonade ready for visitors.

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