Dad loved flowers. His green thumb specialized in roses and geraniums. On Saturday mornings, he used kitchen shears and that cerulean fertilizer water the way an artist uses a paint palette and brushes. Color exploded all over our patios and in all the garden beds. Especially in his last days.
I took one home with me after he passed. I tried my best to mimic the master, but flowers dropped one by one. I thought I killed it. But then I found this.
It’s not all lost.