Written by: Rachael Sherrick
In the summer of 2017, at the age of 13, the was a flash drought. Our lawn and roses were not getting water, so it was left up to someone to water them. My job was created: the water woman.
The rose bush sat on the side of our front yard, a staple to the house’s beauty. I asked my dad that summer why roses. “Your mother loves roses, I planted them for her,” said my dad with a hose in hand. He then shoved the hose into my hands. “Your turn, hun. I need to make sure the mower works.” He wandered into the back shed. The hose’s spout leaking cold water onto my hands and shoes.
I began spraying the roses. I knew they were delicate just by looking at them. Each drop that landed on a flower shone red into my eyes; the water glistened on the petals like an accessory. I was so focused on the flowers that I didn’t notice the water was now spraying the side of the house. My mom peered out the window and laughed at the wall that was now drenched. I smiled at her, understanding the love she had for the roses.
Before I could even say anything to my mom, Xander, my childhood dog, charged over. He seemed to get bored with my dad. Xander saw the water stream and found a new game to play. He would stand right in front of the hose and chomp at the water. Suddenly, the roses were an afterthought; this was more fun.
My dad wandered over with his phone in hand, snapping pictures of Xander and I. Every few minutes, I would stop to let Xander catch his breath and cough up half the water he just ingested, and then the game began again. I realized I was slightly failing at my new job and redirected my attention back to the roses. They must have been watching the game in envy, waiting for their turn with the water. However, every time I turned the hose on, Xander was there, ready to be pummeled by the water.
After a while, I determined the roses, wall, and Xander were all watered enough and put the hose back against the wall. My dad had fixed the mower and was ready to head in as well. As the 3 of us headed inside, I looked back at the roses gleaming in the sun. I felt as though they were thanking me. In my head, I said, “You’re welcome, same time next week?” Yes, the roses nodded from the slight breeze.