Everything is Temporary

My grandmother had a blood red rose that twirled around a post on her
front porch. There’s a picture of me standing next to it when my eyes
were still fresh and she was in the kitchen cooking tiny butter beans
just picked that morning by my grandfather’s hands. Thumbing
through the old photo album I pause at that photo,
remember how my dad dug up the rose before
the old house was sold, replanted it in my
parents’ backyard. A few pages later
there it is, twirling over my parents’
porch, now only a picture in an
album. Gone from this earth,
like my grandparents,
like my mother,
one day,
like
me.

*

Photo by Milly Sime on Unsplash