After the rain shushed and patted my roof all night (I love the sound of rain, don’t you?), the sun came out and it was a perfect day. I went to walk on the beach, little stars-in-my-sky, and you went with me in my heart.
Waves grumbled against the beach, sifting pebbles with fingers of foam in a silky under-whisper, and the wind smelled of wild roses. It curled around me, intoxicating, calling, pulling me until I found the source. And then there they were, higher than my head, warmed by the sun, the first wild roses of summer.
I would have helped you climb the pale silvery driftwood so you could see the highest petals, nodding in the onshore wind. We would stroke the leaves between our fingers, so very thin but so surprisingly tough, and laugh at the way the spicy scent clung to our fingers. I could never get enough of that scent when I was small like you. I would tell you about the summers I visited my aunt on the island where she lived, where every day was filled with wild roses and the shimmer of bright orange California poppies along the roads and sidewalks. The smell of salt and seaweed and wild roses would dance in my dreams long after we went home, mixed with waving sticky starfish feet and tiny crabs scuttling to hide between my fingers when I picked them up. I would tuck a few small leaves in your pockets, so the breath of roses would follow you home, even after it faded from your skin. And then you would pick some yourself, being careful of the tiny prickles, and tuck them into my pockets too, because you’re wise enough to know that even grandmothers need dreams.
Think of me, my littles, when next you smell wild roses on the wind. I’m there, all around you, waiting until we can be together again.