My mom, she never really kept them around the house. I think growing up named Rose kind of tarnished the flower for her. I remember she had this awful quilt made by my grandmother—it was just covered in those tacky embroidered roses. She loved it, somehow, even though it definitely smelled like it belonged to a dead old person.

[ This feels nice, sharing this tiny, unimportant moment in the nippy quiet. She can remember the scent distantly. Moth balls and something sweet, like an old liquor with honey. It wasn't awful but it was far from entirely pleasant. ]

I can't promise it'll be made soon while we're still adjusting to... whatever this is, but I'll get something beautiful to you. [ Maybe a sky of roses in the shades of the aurora they were witnessing now. ]