It’s dead. The Hope for Humanity Rose Bush. This was the rose bush that was given to me on the morning of my mother’s death by three dear friends of hers. You can read more about it in this older post.

This rose bush has been moved almost every second year since she died. First from the little house Nick and I first bought to our newer home in the suburbs. Then it moved with me to the second property we bought together. Then to the house I bought last summer. And this year it grew no more. I patiently waited and hoped to find some sign of life from it these last few weeks, but I saw nothing. And I surprised myself for being ok with it. I made such and effort over the years to not lose that darn thing, and placed such significance on its existence. Not that I don’t still hold the meaning and act of friendship and honour that it represented. But I accepted its death. I put it through a lot over these past years, and finally it couldn’t take the moves anymore.

I remember not long after my mom died, the statue of her Virgin Mary fell from my nightstand and part of her chipped off. I texted my friend, completely frantic, because of this. At the time, I put so much importance on maintaining her physical possessions. And now I feel that my response to the dead rose bush is an indicator of my progress with my grief.

Instead of it being something I couldn’t handle on my own, my thought process was this: I am gonna dig up that dead rose bush to make room for the playhouse a dear family gave to us last fall. And then I am going to buy a new Hope For Humanity rose bush, and plant it in the little nook near the play house. Voila. Problem solved.

And that’s what I am going to do.