Stroke has kept her from her beloved rose garden, poor dear. So I bring it to her, one vase at a time, only one, for there isn’t a clear surface for more than that in her small cluttered room. I have been mindful to cut from all the varieties, to include all the colors of her splendid roses. She can’t speak, but every time I bring her a bouquet she tries to thank me, thin breath rasping on quivering lip and I say, hush now, it’s all right, I know how you love your roses. A tear of gratitude invariably falls down her cheek, and I get weepy too, reminded of the healing power of kind deeds. I shall continue always to tend her roses and bring them to her, for they bring her such joy.

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