En Junio Como En Enero

The house was built some time after January of '75, but before November of '76. My parents went to see the models, made a modest down payment, and paid mortgage on two houses for a year before we moved. We we got there, a little before November of '76, my younger brother was a baby and my mom was about to burst--my sister was about three weeks late in coming. Everything was dusty, unpainted, new, exciting.

About a month after we moved, they were done building all the other houses, paving the street, installing street lighting... it finally looked like a real neighborhood. People started moving in, and my older brother and I started exploring, meeting the new kids, playing. We found a new school, new grocery store, new church. My dad had plants brought in, and we picked where we wanted them ourselves--kids of that age love helping out on all dirty chores. It was fun and exciting.

A year later, my dad decided he didn't like the severely sloping front yard, so he had a builder take the grass out, bring some dirt and build a nice, pink terrace where he could now host parties. Just about every weekend, we'd have a party, get-together, to-do, with the neighbors and my parents' friends. The adults would talk and drink and party till the early morning. The kids would play until they collapsed from exhaustion and were carried to bed by their mothers. On holidays, we'd try our hardest to stay awake till the sun came out, but that's so hard to do when you're so little.

When they built the terrace, they left a space of about two feet from the sidewalk, to be able to accomodate for the steps up to the house, and to plant some trees or grass--other neighbors were doing the same thing; the neighboorhood finally looked lived-in. Kids' bike crowded porches, swings hung from trees, dogs barked, smells of cooking wafted out to the street as one walked to church, or to school, or just went for a walk to visit with friends. I asked my parents if I could have that space between the wall of the terrace and the sidewalk to plant a little garden, instead of just getting grass. They agreed, as long as I took care of it. They asked what plants I wanted so they could buy them. I told them not to get any--I would get them myself. They looked a bit doubtful, but agreed.

For a couple of weeks, I walked all over the neighborhood, asking people for clippings of their rose bushes. I always picked the most striking ones, the ones with the strangest colors, the biggest or nicest ones. Some people politely declined, but by far the majority were more than happy to let me have some. A couple of the ladies were even nice enough to get them for me and keep them in water until they grew some roots before giving them to me. Most were more than happy to let me clip a few little branches here and there.

Roses are hard to grow from clippings. They're frail, finicky, temperamental. Once a they grow roots, though, they're very sturdy and forgiving of a young boy's neglect. I planted way too many, and a few kindly died so the rest could grow strong. In almost no time at all, I had the best rose garden in the neighborhood. People who'd given me clippings would walk on by and recognize their roses and say hi. Boys would pick them for their girls. Old women would always make a fuss when they saw me doing a little gardening.

When the war came, the bushes were old and strong, some so thick at the base they resembled my bony calves. I was very happy with the result. Some produced roses pale in color, but sweet and strong. Some produced roses with little smell, but bright red or yellow, or the fiery mix of both in orange tongues of flame from the ends of tall and well-kept branches. Water was scarce, but they kept flowering. Tanks tore up the street, but my bushes didn't die. The house got bombed and we had to leave. We were gone a couple of months, but when we came back, my bushes had only grown more, jealous guardians of the house that--by then--had become my home. We rebuilt it with our own hands. When the house was done, I set to rebuild my garden, and I did.

Some bushes didn't make it, and I went around the neighborhood looking for more clippings. Most of the neighbors were gone, replaced with strangers who had taken out all the plants and replaced their old gardens with slabs of concrete or bricks, or nothing but grass. Still, I got enough clippings to replace the bushes that had died (I insisted on not having two bushes that produced the same roses, so I couldn't just get clippings from the bushes left to replace the dead ones). It took a few months, but at the end, everything was back to normal.

But now there were no parties. Kids didn't go out to play. The world had suddenly turned far more dangerous and parents kept their families huddled around the nest. We still had get-togethers from time to time, but now only in the back yard, never as loud as before, and mostly friends and relatives, no neighbors. About a year later, we were gone.

We had moved out of the house, staying at my aunt's place for about a month. One night, we drove to the house, where we met a nice older lady who gave my dad an envelope full of money. My dad handed her the keys to our home. We got back in the car and drove away. I didn't take a rose--I didn't think of it at the time. I didn't stop to check on them. My dad cried in silence all the way back to my aunt's. Not knowing what to say, I said nothing.

It has been more than twenty years now. I wonder if my roses are still there.