Rose and leaves on a shoulder

You will not believe what the wind has done to the tub on the fourteenth floor. Ray's rose has been stubborn since the spring we moved in, all leaf and no bloom, and the caretaker kept telling me to pull it up before it blew over the railings onto somebody's hatchback. I told him to mind his own bins. This morning there were three buds open on the top stem, pale in the middle and edged dark, as if someone had gone over them with a fine pen the way Ray used to do the crossword borders.

The leaves have gone a peculiar bronze at the teeth, serrated like the edge of a bread knife, and the berries Ray swore were sloes have come on in clusters underneath, hard and glossy. I sat on the step with my tea going cold and counted the little dots of shade on every petal, hundreds of them, as if the rain had started and stopped in the same place again and again. The lift was out, so I'd walked up seven flights with the shopping, and I think that's why I stayed out there so long.

Mr Okafor from twenty-two came up to smoke and asked about the bloom. I told him it was the only thing on this estate that had ever done what it was told, and he laughed until he coughed. Then I fetched the secateurs from the drawer, cut the top stem at a slant the way Ray showed me, and wrapped it in the local paper.

I'm posting this with the stem folded inside, so mind the thorns when you open it. Don't put it in water yet. Press it in the Bible between Ruth and Samuel, where you'll find the others. Love, Maureen.