While walking with an old friend in a town where I used to live I stop to smell roses, chasing a scent like a memory, but the neatly folded pink petals have no perfume.
Over dinner we talk about our grandmothers, and how we lost them long before they died.
On the way home, I stop again and breathe in another rose-looser, lighter- full of apricots and gardens and promises.
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