I asked my grandfather about Grandma Gizela’s favorite flowers. He said she loved roses. I pressed further, asking about these roses. I knew nothing about them, having never taken an interest in flowers. Grandfather explained that roses aren't grown from seeds; they require a root or a cutting. He finished by reminiscing that when Grandma was alive, they always had many roses in their garden. He said goodbye, mentioning he had to go make lunch.
"Roses aren’t grown from seeds." Grandfather’s words linger in my mind. "Roses aren’t grown from seeds; they need a root or a cutting." A cutting, already bearing thorns and buds. This thought preoccupies me. Apparently, a true rose has five leaves, and if it has seven, it’s what they call a wild rose, one that will never fully bloom. I counted, starting from my great-grandmother Helena, and I am the seventh in line.
I lack the words to describe this. I immerse myself in it. I search. A cutting, already with thorns and buds, but the most important thing is the graft, the connection between the old and the new growth. One family, five generations of women. Each different, but united by a strong bond. Our roots, the thorns of our mothers and grandmothers. The buds from which we and our daughters are born. The entirety.
This is a story of femininity and family. Of denial, broken bonds, and the attempt to overthrow the old order.
