This rose is 48 years old.
When it dropped from my shoulder in the dark,
my date promised to come back the next morning and look for it.
He found it along the path we walked on College Avenue.
Why do I still have this rose?
Because my “date” became my husband.
And his trip back to the street to find the rose
was a gesture that became his signature.
Recently we walked on College Avenue, retracing the steps Stuart took
very early in a spring morning, 1967.
We laughed at our romantic memory when we saw the sign,
the new sidewalk,
and the portable john.
Nothing stays the same forever. Not even carefully preserved roses.