roses

I’ve been taking photographs of flowers on NYC streets for years. There’s something about the juxtaposition of color and softness, fluidity and evolution against concrete and brick, amongst taxis and traffic cones that speaks to me. 

When my mom was struggling last year, I would text her pictures I’d taken, to brighten her day a bit. She told me her favorites were pansies and roses so I had subject matter to look out for. After she died, looking for those photo opportunities helped ground me in my overwhelming grief. Every day from then until they were gone I took photos of purple pansies for my mom. 

And roses. There is a rosebush across the street from where I live that I still stop at every single day to take a photo. From the smallest buds, to petals ravaged by rain, to crispy withering blooms barely hanging on stems, I capture moments in time. There was something powerful about life blooming and slipping away that helped me then, and has stuck with me ever since.

Last year gardeners came and cut back all the rosebushes at a certain point, taking away the remaining blooms, the weathered petals, the brush that had accumulated - I was in tears as this inspiration and destination disappeared. Life. But it all came back. So very different from last season which is fascinating. Still very present, even though it is December, intrepid buds still popping up, spots of vibrant color on cold and cloudy days. Still a place for me to bring my poor pup early every morning as we venture out into the world. And every morning I think of my mom and how she’d love to see the beauty. Maybe not all the ravishing and changes but that’s all part of the cycle too.