Rose outline tattoo on a shoulder

The officer at Vlasi Bridge took our three cuttings out of the box with a pair of steel tweezers, held them up to the lamp as if they might confess something, and dropped them into the bin marked for organic waste. Mama pretended it was only the dust in her eyes. We have been sitting in the car park since noon, and the sun has moved off the windscreen and onto my knees.

So I have been drawing them instead. I bought a fine black pen in the kiosk on the Bulgarian side, the kind that runs thin and steady, and I have used it on the back of the customs form. One line only, no shading, because the roses from Grandfather's wall never needed more than that. The big one by the gate has its outer petals folded back like a bad hat. The leaves come in fives along the stem, and I kept the tips lighter so they would look like they were still deciding whether to open.

When the officer came back, he asked what the drawings were. I told him they were the only roses that would cross. He turned the page over, looked at the pen lines for a long time, and then traced one petal on the glass of his booth with his fingertip. He folded the sheet into his breast pocket, stamped the form, and waved us through without a word.

I do not know whether the rose by the well has come up yet. Tell Radoslav to water it on Thursdays and not to listen to Mama about the frost. Keep the drawing safe if you ever see a copy. Somewhere on the far side of that border there is a rose that will never need watering.

Your sister, Radka