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House backed by Sippo Lake Park, forest trickled
into my grandparents’ backyard like dandelion seeds.
Oak trees, bumpy and brown bark, like pecans,
sheltered fresh cut grass from sun, ushering in
deer and chipmunks. A flourishing garden of pastel
hydrangeas, golden daffodils, magenta
wild phlox. Beside the door grew a trailing rose bush
back before my sister was born, back before
stepsiblings and significant others joined
the family. Narrow, olive green stems
were dotted with ruby roses, their teardrop petals
soft like spiderweb silk. Before leaving,
I pointed at the fullest
rose and listened to the snip
of my grandma’s scissors. She wrapped it
in damp newspaper to conceal
thorns, until I placed it
in a crystal vase on my dresser, where the sun
shone a spotlight on the rose, petals
extending outward—a child’s hand wishing
to be held forever.
The water yellowed.
The rose withered, wrinkles like smile lines
on my grandma’s face.
Each month of each year
I asked her for a new rose,
naïve in thinking
the bush would last forever.
Taylor Necko
Taylor Necko is a senior at Bowling Green State University majoring in Creative Writing. Much of her work is focused on human relationships and how they transform. Along with her major, she is double-minoring in Art and Word-Image. She is the editor in chief of Prairie Margins, her college’s undergraduate literary journal, and a writer for Her Campus. She has been previously published in Gabby and Min’s Literary Review and is soon to be published in the Oakland Arts Review.