Friday, May 13, 2011
My father had a house in the hills of western PA. It had a wonderful back porch; mornings brought a riot of birds to it's several feeders, the afternoon sun would hit the wild roses that rambled the hills nearby, and their scent lingered into the evening. We would sit sipping Jameson's soaking in the roses and the call of the whippoorwills. Scent,so tied to memory, the smell of sun warmed roses recall my father to me. The memories re uncomplicated by bitterness, or disappointed, they still can prick with unexpected pain from the thorns, but mostly they are sweet, like rosebushes . . .