Ong amon nga bulak

***WINNER OF DESCENT’S SEMESTERLY WRITING CONTEST***

It’s not the anniversary of anything yet, but it will be in a few months. This spring, the one year anniversary of my grandma Naynay’s hospitalization. She moved out of our house to my tita’s, where there was more space for her medical equipment. That summer, Nay passed away.

This is the first thorn of my adulthood: the loss of a close family member.

I’m not mentally ready for this spring, but I’ve begun bracing myself. When I think about my grandma, I remember how she loved roses. I remember how every May, my mom and Nay would gather blooms for the altar in Nay’s bedroom. There is such a clear picture in my mind of Nay meticulously pruning the prickly stems of the flowers on our kitchen counter as my mom prepared glass vases. It’s a fond memory that is forever embedded in my heart.

Ironically, I never had a conscious interest in roses growing up. I mean, they grew in our backyard and smelled nice sometimes? I knew it hurt a lot if our basketball rolled away and got lodged in the thorns, that stems should be cut at an angle to maximize water intake, and that unfurled buds are the best to put in vases since they gradually open up over time. I would soon learn more about caring for roses from Nay directly.

When the lockdown started, gardening became one of my main hobbies. My therapist suggested I do something outdoors and I thought gardening would be cute and romantic. Nay was so excited when I began going outside consistently. She would always ask me in the afternoons if I was going to garden later that day. If I answered yes, she would dutifully prepare her little walking aid that accompanied her as she did laps around our backyard. I was growing roses too, and Nay was so worried about the thorns wounding my hand. When I pruned the base of a shrub, she would slow her pace and sagely advise, “Mag ingat ka at baka matusok ka, Jan.” Take care or else you will get poked. I miss her gentle reminders that always prioritized my well-being.

Just the other day, I planted a new rose in a terracotta pot at my parents’ house. I hadn’t realized this particular type of heirloom rose had thorns near the base of the plant, so I almost dropped it when it pierced my thumb. Why did I space out? Of course roses have thorns! It’s one of the flower’s defining characteristics. I think it was unexpected because I thought I knew better. I’d completely forgotten Nay’s warning. Maybe I’d been too eager to plant the rose because I wanted to relive my memories of gardening with Nay sooner.

Recently I listened to a podcast about grief, and the hosts said something along the lines of “At some point they’ll be gone longer than they’ve been alive.” It knocked the wind out of me. I hadn’t heard such a concise summary of how small life can be. Nay was 94 and spent the last two decades of her life living with my family. She helped raise my brother and me; she gave everything she could to us. And her impact on our lives was anything but small.

This is my thorn. It’s the sharp inhale I take when I see my grandma’s cherished shrubs waking up from winter dormancy, and realize she isn’t around to enjoy them anymore. It’s gravitating towards any purple or red roses because they’ve always been the most fragrant varieties in our backyard. Every day I see Nay’s favorite color rose on my way to school, and I just have to soldier on to campus without shattering.

Planting my rose marks a tangible, fresh start. It’s something that Nay would be proud of me for. Maybe soon my heart will stop feeling like that basketball stuck in the rose bush. And maybe soon I can look at my new rose, knowing that the roots have anchored steadily and completely into the dirt. I need to see something under my care thrive, so that my heartache will be easier to live with.

Despite the scarring I feel in my heart, I hope for better days. I want to see my roses bloom.