Tendrils
I yank the daisies up by their roots, spewing dirt across my toes but ending their sprawl and droop across the garden path.
A memory flashes as I trim the roots and tug the leaves from the lower stems. My great-grandfather hands three-year-old me the roses he has de-thorned one by one to keep me from pricking myself.
Each day, his wife of sixty years smiles and welcomes the bouquet.
Ruminations 