Roses on my garden

The view from my apartment in Buenos Aires is gritty and urban. From my balcony I can see the backs of other apartment buildings, with their dried paint wearing out and chipping off. Ivy crawls up the walls, creating abstract drawings that look like mold in the winter but that burst with green in the spring.

It’s a somber view of gray cement.

“You should get some plants,” my friend Vale said, when I complained about the grayness of my home.

I tried having plants before. During the pandemic I grew a small garden in my apartment back in Brazil. I had peppers, basil, rosemary, and mint. I tended to them every day and loved to rub my fingers on the leaves and smell the sweet green odor of the herbs.

They all died within six months.

When Vale suggested I get some plants, I remembered my last attempt as a gardener. But the lack of color and life in my apartment was starting to feel bleak, so I decided to give it a try.

For the next two weeks, every time I passed my local flower shop I bought a new plant. Among the many herbs and flowers that I brought home, I also made a bold choice—I bought roses.

It seems to me that if roses were easy to care for then everybody would have them. But this thought did not deter me from taking the beautiful blue rose buds home.

My balcony was now blooming with plants and suddenly life didn’t seem so gray.

My joy didn’t last very long.

After three days, the rose petals fell. The florist told me that it was normal and that they would bloom again after a few weeks. That did not happen.

Soon, the stems started to darken and the leaves were blown away by the wind.

I took a picture and showed the florist again, hoping that he could teach me how to save it. His diagnosis was grim—my roses were dying. Lack of sun and excess of water and wind were the culprits. Roses were high maintenance and I could not give them proper care.

I should’ve thrown the pot away immediately, but I was disappointed and didn’t want to deal with it, so I just left it where it was and abandoned it completely.

I kept watering and tending to my other plants.

Time passed and I forgot about the roses.

One day—weeks after my roses had died—I was reading a book on my balcony and looked at the rose pot. One small leaf was sprouting out from one of the stems. I couldn’t decide whether it had always been there or if it had just recently appeared.

After a few days, I noticed a few more leaves sprouting.

This week, all the stems were bright green and full of small leaves.

I had neglected them for nearly a month. The only water they received had been from the sparse winter rains that showered the balcony from time to time.

My roses were alive.

They didn’t need special care, daily watering or six hours of direct sunlight.

They didn’t need weekly pruning, enriched soil, organic fertilizer or compost.

I left them completely alone. And they lived.

Sometimes all we need is a little more time.