Authors: Ray Robertson
“What other kind would I be talking about?”
“I do not know. But you caring for a rose bush, I cannot see this in my mind.”
“I'm not caring for it. I'm just . . . watching it.”
“I see.”
And then it didn't rain, and it didn't rain, and then it didn't rain again. I asked Franklin when he came downstairs to Sophia's for a whiskey break, “Is it raining?” and he immediately set down his whiskey on the bar, whispered, “What's wrong?”
“Who said anything's wrong? I just asked you if it was raining outside.”
Franklin looked at me like he was trying to remember an agreed-upon code word, silently mouthed the word
rain
.
“Oh, forâ” I went upstairs and outside to check for myself. It still wasn't raining.
The next day, I filled an empty whiskey bottle with water and poured it over the bush. After the bottle was empty, I poked my finger into the ground and it was only wet a quarter of an inch down. Henry followed me back inside the house while I refilled the bottle and then back to the bush while I watered it again, and then one more time after that. This time the earth was soaked deep, to the bush's roots.
To create a little flower is the labour of ages,
Mr. Blake wrote. He must have been a gardener too.
The day after that, one of the buds was open when we arrived with two whiskey bottles of water. A pink rose. I let
Henry go first, then I knelt down on one knee and smelt it too. Honest perfume. I smelt it again.
I've left Thompson the two whiskey bottles with detailed, written watering instructions. It would probably be easier if I had an actual watering can, though. Maybe when we come home next month I'll stop in at McKeough's Hardware and buy one. It's not as if I can't afford it.