A little girl with bright blue eyes and golden curls runs around the corner to Grandpa.
"Why does a rose have thorns?"
"For protection I suppose sweet."
"From you dear"
"Why me?! I won't hurt the pretty rose Grandpa!"
"Did you pick that rose hun?"
"Did you prick your pretty finger on its' thorn?"
"Yes I did see!" she says holding her wound up for Grandpa to see. Grandpa chuckles and kisses it.
"Yes I see sweet. Well you hurt that rose as much as it hurt you"
"Roses don't breath Grandpa"
"That's true little kay...not like me and you...but what you have to learn in this life my pretty is that when you hurt or damage something you are bound to be hurt or damaged back...If you had let the rose grow and die when it was suppose to die...It would have been much more beautiful."
"But I like picking roses Grandpa! They smell good and they make mommy smile and grandma smile!"
"Never said stop picking roses sweet...just know there are always fruits for your seeds that you sow."
"Oh Grandpa I ain't sowed no seeds!"
Grandpa smiled and bent over and smelled from a rose but not touching it.
"Did you see that hard head?"
"Yes I did...you like smelling roses just like me Grandpa."
"Yes I do....I do that sweet."
To this day Grandpa's words ring in my hard head, "Well you hurt that rose as much as it hurt you"....Grandpa died in 2001 but his rose story lives on now. I picked a rose and pricked my finger and I layed the rose on his grave. I will pick a thousand more Grandpa...I will always be that hard head your thumping.....Farewell...
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