MaryAnn Bennett Rosberg Chicago, IL email Hear an audio version of this piece can't hear it? Three Roses I The first is dusty red Velveting out from its salading center. I take my pen and poke its heart to see the mystery: yellow beings curled too tight for birth. II Florence had a heart stroke, the nurse said --in the hospital again, so soon after her fractured hip. Her teeth are back at the home. This time mom said, “Keep the roses where I can see them.” I’d only brought three. Last time she’d said, “Give the money to the poor.” Three like we used to be— Mom, Dad and me. Subtract Dad and place my husband in that space it’s still three. III The second rose is yellow. Whirled wide around a pinhole to its unknown heart…. as if each whisk of the butter cream batter held still for you to love the making. IV How do you stroke a heart? Is an old one dusky pink with blue bruises? At 93, mom’s a thorn stick beneath blankets. Chest wires hold her heart just like those that hold the rose. Her hair squiggles out from her head like the corkscrew willowing branches I tried to grow in vases, then pots. The only one that thrived grew in her backyard— Survived droughts and snows, only fell to the new owner’s axe when her home was sold. V The third rose is pink edged, white spirals into itself, but not too tight. Each outer petal, broader, more generous while inner ones wing ‘round a flamingo necked soul. VI Ah, this is why she was moved From Edgewater Hospital To Our Lady of the Resurrection, Back to St. Joseph’s Home: Florence arose again.

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