Nonfiction by Allison Wehrle
The rose, its five-inch bloom too heavy for its stem, brushed against my leg. It hung over the edged garden bed onto the narrow walkway alongside our garage. I had planted this rosebush just a few months prior, sprinkling its roots with ashes as I emptied the contents of a paw-printed urn into their final resting place. It flourished quickly and now demanded my attention, just like its furry counterpart. I set my toddler down and knelt in front of the insistent plant, cupping the massive flower in my hands. Pulling the pruning shears out of my back pocket, I clipped the bowed stem along with a couple other blossoms, dense petals still unfurling. I brought the trio into the house and placed them in my grandma’s delicate bud vase.
Jack, our beloved black cat (who once shattered a mirror) lived to be 13 and passed on the Ides of March. I acquired him when he was just five weeks old and, as far as either of us was concerned, I was his mama. My constant companion, this fluffy soot sprite blossomed into a stunning feline, with plush fur, inquisitive green eyes, and a supple, panther-like tail.
Our family – and square footage – grew considerably over the years: cat, husband, kids; apartment, condo, house. And with the house came a (postage stamp of a) yard. Finally, I could get my hands dirty and plant something other than the same boring annuals in a window box. Perennials. Pollinators. Vegetables. I wanted them all. But then I had a baby, who was too mobile come spring for me to do much gardening, so I stuck some petunias in a pot and tended to my offspring instead. We spent that summer on a blanket in the back yard, while the cats lounged on the deck.
Iggy, a big blue tomcat that spent his early years on the mean streets of Chicago, adopted me from the shelter where I volunteered at the time, not realizing that Jack and I were a package deal. He had the softest fur and the sharpest claws; the tiniest meow and the loudest purr; the meanest glare and the biggest heart. Both a lover and a biter, he was the toughest ‘fraidy cat I’ve ever known.
Iggy assumed the alpha male role upon arrival. He bit Jack’s ears to assert dominance and to try and tame that free spirit. He chattered angrily at the birds outside the living room window, to show them who’s boss. But the night a mouse dared enter our apartment, Iggy dropped all pretense. He leapt onto the kitchen table, prancing around like a housewife from the fifties, leaving Jack to deal with the squeaky intruder. Despite their roughhousing, Jack worshipped Iggy. Iggy begrudgingly came to love Jack. They made such a great pair.
If cats had middle names, Jack’s would have been Trouble. Although it was acute kidney failure – not curiosity – that took him from us, it became clear early on that his nine lives would be nowhere near enough, given his penchant for mischief. Above all, Jack adored us, his family, and was happiest when we were all at home. Although he missed it by a day, Jack would have loved lockdown.
Each summer, we made small improvements to the yard. We replaced the ugly, overgrown yew with a Japanese maple, thinned the hostas, and buried tulip bulbs among the boxwoods. Then came the year everything changed.
Stuck at home, awash in postpartum hormones, suddenly unemployed and without childcare, my home felt more like a prison than a refuge and I longed to be outdoors. The neighbors had removed a large catalpa tree, sending a stream of sunlight flooding into our backyard. I wanted to plant a rose. A rose for Jack. The new baby hampered my gardening ambitions; the slow reopening of non-essential businesses (like nurseries) derailed it entirely. And so we spent another idle summer in the backyard, all except for Iggy, who was content to lounge in the doorway and sniff the warm breeze or snooze in the sunbeams.
Not wanting to miss another planting season, I ordered plants online the next February. I chose Jack’s rose almost instantly, an exceptional, show-stopping hybrid with jumbo blooms in a velvety crimson. Even its name spoke to me: Grateful Heart. I debated whether to preemptively order a plant for Iggy, too, even as he lay draped across my lap, purring. Pragmatism edged out my guilt, as his health was steadily declining. Although the vet once declared him to be the “Timex of felines”, illness and old age soon won out.
I kept coming back to Crescendo, a delicate tea rose with petals that morphed from white to blush to pink as they unfurled. I perused the recommended add-ons and selected a highly rated plant food that edged my total up just enough to qualify for free shipping, but decided against the bone meal, which seemed morbidly redundant.
Back outside, I moved to the other rosebush. Planted the same day and enhanced with the same organic matter, for weeks it remained a cluster of thorny, lifeless branches. Had I not been so invested in its survival I would have likely given up when it first failed to thrive. But now, this late bloomer had rewarded my patience with a solitary, breath-taking rose.
As I reached to clip the single rose from its stocky bush, I punctured my thumb on a razor-sharp thorn lurking just below the leaves. It was then I knew I’d chosen the right cultivar. “Hi, buddy” I whispered, as I pressed thumb and forefinger together to discourage bleeding. Then, holding the stem by the scruff this time, I nestled Iggy’s lone flower into the vase, the perfect complement to Jack’s showy blooms.
Allison Wehrle is a former magazine editor, classically trained musician and aspiring essay writer. She lives in Chicago with her husband and two human children.
