Written by: Emma Festa
Around a flower, a tradition has grown in my family. The rose, my middle name, once belonged to my great-grandmother, Mary Rose. She was granted her name from her mother, who had a special relationship with her pink rose bushes from her home in Portugal. When she immigrated to the United States, it was to provide her children with new opportunities. My great-grandmother was then born a U.S citizen, having to navigate the hardships of being a first generation Portuguese-American and being far away from her parents’ native homeland. What brought her and her mother comfort were the rosebushes they planted in front of their new home in Massachusetts—mirroring the ones they had left behind in Portugal. Roses were one of the few things that bonded them together.
It is the same tradition my grandmother, Mimi, has with me and my mom that stays in front of our home. For generations we’ve planted pink rose bushes in tribute to the women in our lives.
When I planted the roses with my Mimi and mom growing up, I listened to stories about their mothers and how special those moments were to them. It made me feel connected to the female relatives I had and lost. The roses connected us just as it connected them.
My Mimi is the gentlest, kindest woman I know. She’s soft spoken and introverted, yet speaks fiercely to the roses when she gardens. My mother and I are the opposite– my mom emphasizes using your voice, speaking up when something is upright, possibly because she had to defend both herself and her mother. I take after her in communication skills and being widely extroverted. Yet, when it comes to the garden, the two of us sheepishly step aside to let Mimi guide us through the process. If the garden is a classroom, then my mom and I are students, and my Mimi is the teacher.
What I especially appreciate about roses is that even when their petals fade and their pretty features are gone, they still carry meaning after they’ve passed, like the stories of growing them or the gift of a bouquet to a loved one. Those are the same memories I carry with me of my great-grandmother, even after she grew old and died, her legacy in our family continues to travel through our storytelling. While she may be gone, she still carries so much meaning to our home. Mary Rose gave me the Rose I will carry in my name until I too am gone. Mimi gave me the stories and traditions I will cherish forever. Roses gave us the shared tradition that bonded six generations of vastly different women together.