“I’m cutting the ones that are done.” She turned a stem over.

“The dog took my glove again.”

I found it under the bench, wet at the fingers.

He had chewed the thumb nearly through.

“Your grandfather’s roses are tougher than that glove,” I said.

“He planted them for my grandmother.” She cut another stem and laid it on the paper.

“Evelyn always said they were common.”

I sat beside her and took the shears.