I love roses.

They smell so delicate and yet they feel the air aggressively. The word "permeate" was created to describe the smell of roses. They are so soft to the touch, to brush against my cheek or touch my lips, like freshly washed and dried skin without calluses. They have pretty colors, not just blood red, but yellow and white and lavender and orange and striped and blended. Sure they have thorns, but life is full of thorns. Nothing that pretty should be trusted completely. It's a good lesson to know.

Roses remind me of old people as often as they remind me of romance. Visiting my grandmother's home, the place always smelled of her rose perfume, and the vague uncomfortable odor of rotting flesh.

Baby skin, rotting flesh, love and thorns.

I hate roses.  ¶ 8:00 AM

  Winds of change have driven off the last of winter, and we have been baking under a hotter than normal spring sun. I am unaccostumed to the bright light, and I am not sure I wish to see it so early, or perhaps, so late. Without the steady clock of Frank's employment, I am not sure if I would chose to be a daylight creature. The light hurts my eyes, even as the new smells assault my nose. There's something almost kind in sitting on the porch and watching the moon, when everything is still but you and a few bats playing chicken at the corner streetlamp.

But no, I get to watch the children screaming onto the bus, and off the bus, and running through our yard on their way to some where else. And the bint next door letting the cat in and out and staring to see if I bothered with clothes today. And Gene cutting his lawn across the street, or possibly washing the inside of his garage again. He always smiles and waves, and I have to wonder at his motives.

Still, on a nice day like today, I wonder if the ice cream store down the street has opened yet, and if so, would Frank perhaps like to go for a walk with me? I am so grateful it just isn't cold any more, that I like to be reminded with my sweets. Pistachio and cherry topping, if you got it. Pretty.

And yet... I am such an optimist. I wonder when it will rain.  ¶ 5:07 PM

  Mom called again.

My cousin who is getting the divorce is also pregnant. My aunt doesn't know whether to brag or change her identity. She's happy to have another grandchild, but oh, born to a single woman, and not really sure who the daddy is? Oh the shame of it all. The disgrace upon the Family Name. Grandma would be having fits if she were still alive.

Nutbunnies. The shame and disgrace isn't there any more. Who the hell cares? The antecedents of a child rarely affect what that child turns into any more, unless the parents are very rich and can arrange things to make that child better off- and then they can be President. The stigma of divorce is non-existant too. People these days changes spouses like they change their purses- once a season, needed or no. This summer's spouse shall be a tanned blonde. And next winter, Latin lovers will be the rage, so start planning your flirts early this year.

I don't give a fig for Family pride. Pride is a sin. They teach us that when we are young. One of the 7 cardinal sins. Sure, lust and gluttony and sloth and envy a few other things are also sins. But I like pride least.

We are also taught to love the sinner as we hate the sin, and that ain't an easy thing to do. It's rather easier to be hypocritical in our righteousness - and allow envy to rear in us and snipe at the other person, but that's not what we ought to do. We should be helpful and supportive of my cousin, not gossiping about her. I'd rather she called me direct, instead of hearing everything from my mother, who is downright wistful about a grandchild.

My mother wishes I was my cousin about now- awful morals and all- just for the baby. She can focus her puppies and duckies on my cousin. I don't want 'em.  ¶ 11:23 AM