Grannie's roses...

Haibun prose is composed of terse, descriptive paragraphs, written in the first person singular. The text unfolds in the present moment, as though the experience is occurring now rather than yesterday or some time ago. In keeping with the simplicity of the accompanying haiku, all excessive words should be pared down or deleted. Nothing must ever be overstated.

Haibun Monday - designated day for writing a short prose story, today of a childhood memory, good or bad. This I wrote last summer and thought it fit today's prompt over at dversepoets.com. The pics are from the small farm my grandparents had during the 40's and 50's in Underwood, WA. This is my great-grandmother, Blanche, born in 1877, who once was a nurse and married a Baptist minister when living in Pennsylvania.   

GRANNIE'S ROSES

My Grannie's garden boasts deep colored roses born of richly toiled soil. Their heirloom scents fill my nostrils. Reds, yellows and whites, shades of pink, orange, and mauve, we cut flowers for vases to put in the house. Some climb over the split rail fence where wind flaps dry pillowcases and sheets hanging from the laundry lines spread between two wooden poles. Crows perch there and loudly caw their song.

Her wrinkled hand touches my brunette hair, pushing back my bangs. She wipes my nose and kisses my cheek. After we pick peas for dinner, we fill a bucket with raspberries. Her arm around me we sit on the old porch swing; she reads while we rock. Sometimes we sit under the moonlight.

It was where I planted my first pansies, sweet peas and beans and stepped on an angry bumble bee. Grannie measured and marked my height by that of a lilac tree. She nurtured and mentored me in those early days as we washed and wrung clothes on the old washing machine. My dreams and ideas grew from there. No wonder I love to be in a rose garden.

A young Irish lass

grew from Grannie's rose garden,

herself now a rose