honglay

There were fifty-two rosebushes along our fence. My husband planted the first one in 1973. One for every anniversary. He’d come home with dirt under his fingernails, scratches on his …

My husband planted one rosebush for every anniversary of our 52-year marriage. After he died, I dreaded the first June without him. Then, on our anniversary, I counted the bushes—and found 53. A small tag was tied to the newest rose. When I turned it over, I saw six words in my husband’s handwriting: “One more year, Maggie. Love, Tom.” Read More

There were fifty-two rosebushes along our fence. My husband planted the first one in 1973. One for every anniversary. He’d come home with dirt under his fingernails, scratches on his …

My husband planted one rosebush for every anniversary of our 52-year marriage. After he died, I dreaded the first June without him. Then, on our anniversary, I counted the bushes—and found 53. A small tag was tied to the newest rose. When I turned it over, I saw six words in my husband’s handwriting: “One more year, Maggie. Love, Tom.” Read More

There were fifty-two rosebushes along our fence. My husband planted the first one in 1973. One for every anniversary. He’d come home with dirt under his fingernails, scratches on his …

My husband planted one rosebush for every anniversary of our 52-year marriage. After he died, I dreaded the first June without him. Then, on our anniversary, I counted the bushes—and found 53. A small tag was tied to the newest rose. When I turned it over, I saw six words in my husband’s handwriting: “One more year, Maggie. Love, Tom.” Read More

There were fifty-two rosebushes along our fence. My husband planted the first one in 1973. One for every anniversary. He’d come home with dirt under his fingernails, scratches on his …

My husband planted one rosebush for every anniversary of our 52-year marriage. After he died, I dreaded the first June without him. Then, on our anniversary, I counted the bushes—and found 53. A small tag was tied to the newest rose. When I turned it over, I saw six words in my husband’s handwriting: “One more year, Maggie. Love, Tom.” Read More

There were fifty-two rosebushes along our fence. My husband planted the first one in 1973. One for every anniversary. He’d come home with dirt under his fingernails, scratches on his …

My husband planted one rosebush for every anniversary of our 52-year marriage. After he died, I dreaded the first June without him. Then, on our anniversary, I counted the bushes—and found 53. A small tag was tied to the newest rose. When I turned it over, I saw six words in my husband’s handwriting: “One more year, Maggie. Love, Tom.” Read More

There were fifty-two rosebushes along our fence. My husband planted the first one in 1973. One for every anniversary. He’d come home with dirt under his fingernails, scratches on his …

My husband planted one rosebush for every anniversary of our 52-year marriage. After he died, I dreaded the first June without him. Then, on our anniversary, I counted the bushes—and found 53. A small tag was tied to the newest rose. When I turned it over, I saw six words in my husband’s handwriting: “One more year, Maggie. Love, Tom.” Read More

There were fifty-two rosebushes along our fence. My husband planted the first one in 1973. One for every anniversary. He’d come home with dirt under his fingernails, scratches on his …

My husband planted one rosebush for every anniversary of our 52-year marriage. After he died, I dreaded the first June without him. Then, on our anniversary, I counted the bushes—and found 53. A small tag was tied to the newest rose. When I turned it over, I saw six words in my husband’s handwriting: “One more year, Maggie. Love, Tom.” Read More

There were fifty-two rosebushes along our fence. My husband planted the first one in 1973. One for every anniversary. He’d come home with dirt under his fingernails, scratches on his …

My husband planted one rosebush for every anniversary of our 52-year marriage. After he died, I dreaded the first June without him. Then, on our anniversary, I counted the bushes—and found 53. A small tag was tied to the newest rose. When I turned it over, I saw six words in my husband’s handwriting: “One more year, Maggie. Love, Tom.” Read More

There were fifty-two rosebushes along our fence. My husband planted the first one in 1973. One for every anniversary. He’d come home with dirt under his fingernails, scratches on his …

My husband planted one rosebush for every anniversary of our 52-year marriage. After he died, I dreaded the first June without him. Then, on our anniversary, I counted the bushes—and found 53. A small tag was tied to the newest rose. When I turned it over, I saw six words in my husband’s handwriting: “One more year, Maggie. Love, Tom.” Read More

There were fifty-two rosebushes along our fence. My husband planted the first one in 1973. One for every anniversary. He’d come home with dirt under his fingernails, scratches on his …

My husband planted one rosebush for every anniversary of our 52-year marriage. After he died, I dreaded the first June without him. Then, on our anniversary, I counted the bushes—and found 53. A small tag was tied to the newest rose. When I turned it over, I saw six words in my husband’s handwriting: “One more year, Maggie. Love, Tom.” Read More