17
I visited Peter. He was thriving, the newly
discovered son of a billionaire. But he was still dedicated to his music. I found him practicing in
his opulent music room, his profile handsome
and focused.
I waited patiently for an hour. When he
emerged, he saw me and blurted out, “Mom!” I
chuckled. He blushed. “Lily, you’re here.”
“Came to see my son,” I teased. He blushed
deeper.
“The Queen Elisabeth Competition is coming
12:06
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up,” I said, changing the subject. “Are you in?”
“Absolutely. I’m going for gold.”
“Then I’ll take the adult division. I haven’t been
slacking.”
We exchanged a knowing smile. After dinner, Peter led me to the backyard. It was filled with roses. Red, yellow, white… a riot of color. August roses, in full bloom. Different colors, different meanings. Red for passion and
courage. Yellow for joy and beauty. White for
purity and reverence. But whatever their color,
whatever their meaning, they represented
themselves. Blooming boldly, for their own sake.
Roses, blooming in solitary splendor.
Magnificent, vibrant, exactly as they should be.
And so was I.
