A rose garden lines the right side of the cement path leading from the house to the street.  Another way, the garden is on the left side of the cement path leading from the street to the house.  Whichever way, the rosebushes are in the front yard, Babcia’s domain. My sisters and I are forbidden to play there, and, God forbid, don’t dare to touch the roses. 

            However, every now and then, the devil that I am, when I believe the house is quiet, and Mom isn’t bothering me to do a chore, or she’s busy with my little sisters, or she tells me to go find something to do and get out of her hair, I sneak out to the front yard, climb up a young, red maple tree, and gaze at the rosebushes.  I just gotta’ dream.  I’m taking a risk of being caught and getting a harsh slap from Mom, yet I’m doing it my way and think the tree will hide me for a bit.

            Mom says the rosebushes belong to my Polish grandmother, Babcia, given to her by Uncle Eddie.  Yet, in my young heart-of-hearts, the roses belong to me.  The yard belongs to me.  The house belongs to me, too.  Everything is all mine, mine, mine.

            Soft yellow and the palest shade of pink roses bloom full, petals bursting, with tiny brown and yellowish squiggly sprouts, like sea creatures, that squiggle at the roses’ center. With stems as tall as me, prickered boughs bend down from the weight of exploding blossoms, tempting me to touch.  Roses as soft as Aunt LaLa’s pink powder puff that sits on her vanity and that I softly stroke across my cheek.  Petal upon petal, I don’t know which is prettier, the blooms, or the pinker buds still tightly curled.  Their energy floods me with a desire to pry them open and search for who-knows-what inside.

            Sooner or later, my younger sister, Barb, finds me in the tree, asks me to chalk out a game of hopscotch on the rose petal-lined path, dangerously close to the forbidden rosebushes.  I climb out of the tree.

             Suddenly, Mom yells out a window, “Don’t touch the roses!  Jeanne, make sure your sister doesn’t touch them!  You’ll get hurt by the prickers!  And, the bees!”  By the prickly tone of her voice, I know I’m in trouble.

             “Jeanne, I don’t want to listen to your grandmother bitchin’ at me!  Go on in the backyard.  The front yard belongs to Babcia!”  Mom reminds me for the umpteenth time. 

            Sometimes, a few roses get misled by this misbehaved daughter, and Babcia curses at Mom, usually first in English, then Polish.  I’d feel sorry about that, yet, the forbidden roses must reach my uncontrollable hand.  I’d wonder why Babcia can’t share her roses.  After all, at my Italian Nanny’s house, Grandpa shares beautiful zinnias from his flower garden that bring poetic thoughts to mind.

            Other days, Mom sings the same warning song about Babcia’s rosebushes as my sisters and I head to St. Mary’s school, the rose blossoms springing along the path.  I close the heavy, oak front door of my house, sprinkle my feet lightly down the green-painted, wooden steps of the front porch, slip my hand round the green, column post, feel its smoothness, and follow sisters Donna and Barb.  A few petals, loosened from the fluffy pink and yellow puffs of blooms, lay in the grass along the path to the front gate.

            It was only thirty feet from porch to the street sidewalk, but, oh, how the front yard made me want to linger!  The tempting yellow and pink roses, the irises, the hydrangea bushes, the purplish Rose of Sharon bush, the red maple tree, the green grass, and the path to the backyard, where I want to run and play.  Sparrows dart back and forth, land in the maple tree, and call their friends to join them.

             “See the beautiful flowers, feel the sun upon them, the grass so green, the purple irises nod to me, the rose petals are blushing,” the birds seem to sing.

            As Mom stands on the front porch, holding baby Maria, she tells me to get going.  I swing a brown paper lunch bag, my name carefully written by my hand in script below the rolled down top, and slowly drag my feet along the path.  Mom calls to Donna to tie her shoe and tells Barb to straighten out her uniform collar.  In this second when Mom’s distracted, I quickly grab a few pink rose petals off a bloom, avoid the angry prickers, pray that Mom or Babcia do not see me, frightened by the thought of what if they do, and stuff the softness to my nose to take in the sweet, fragrant perfume.

            I rub the petals on my cheek and roll them between my fingers in a soothing motion, as the fragrance seeps into my skin.  Then, I stick my forbidden rose petals in the pocket of my uniform and get going, my way.

Note: I began writing this story in 2008 and finished it in June, 2023. Barb gave me a vase of pink roses in June, 2023, which was the inspiration to complete this story. Her rosebushes were grown from a cutting from Babcia’s rosebushes on Jefferson Street.