What happened to the red roses of my youth? Then I would have died if the roses I received were not red, the color of blood and guts and hearts, the color of wild unbridled passion, the color of being young and longing for ardor and singular attention. Red made me all those promises. I remember how they would scent up the house, a heavy scent that weighed down the room as they wilted. The fragrance of red roses reminds me of my mother’s favorite perfume then, Joy by Jean Patou. When I was only nine and recovering from the flu, I poured some Joy into my sponge bath water to fragrance my little frail body that was just recovering well. I remember my mother’s rage. All these memories come back to me when I see red roses.
In my 20s, I would have died  or killed  if I did not receive red roses. But my 30s brought a different color on. I began to prefer charming yellow roses. They carried with them a lighter fragrance and I thought they brought the sun into a room. They were also very feminine and serene, sort of the way a woman feels when she has young children and is not at the time particularly frazzled by their growing pains. Yellow roses marked my coming into womanhood, my flying years, my discovering years. Some people who knew the details of my 30s thought they were my falling-apart years and there were times when I thought so, too. Now, in retrospect, I see them as the years when I fell apart and then picked up my pieces and glued them together again, creating the next person I would become. Sure, I made massive mistakes along the way and certainly they hurt profoundly, but I survived. Yellow roses became my flowers of survival.
Forties rolled around and I had no time to think about roses, not even to celebrate Valentine’s Day. Who cared? I was rebuilding my life brick by brick in the United States. Who had the time to think about roses? I would see them blooming in gardens or for sale at the supermarket or flower stands. They came in all colors  white, ivory, yellow, peach, pink, coral, lavender, red, some of them were even dyed blue. I admired them in passing but did not buy any. Roses had very little role to play when I was in my 40s.
When my 50s came around, I received more roses but this time, no longer from lovers or swains but from associates in my industry. I remember being swamped with flowers on my 50th birthday. Over the years, I found I no longer liked red roses, even if they were supposed to voice love. There were other ways to say love, they did not have to be red. I began to hate huge arrangements of red roses. Clusters of yellow roses in various shades I still liked. They were quieter and more pleasant than red. I enjoyed bouquets of white roses  for purity, they say. I think white roses are hopeful roses, from people who want to play it safe.
I received a bunch of lavender roses from my nephew. I enjoyed those, found them charmingly unforgettable, painted them, in fact. Yes, that is what I did in my 50s. I painted, watercolors, all colors of roses, in vases, in chairs. I thought I did a pretty good painting job on roses.
At 59, I had a stroke and, in a manner of speaking, time stood still for two whole years. But now I am 62.
An old friend invited me for breakfast. "Come, it’s Valentine’s Day, let me buy you flowers," he said.
"No, don’t bother, I don’t need flowers. I don’t even need Valentine’s Day," I said.
"No, come, I want you to do it. Take your pick."
I looked at all the roses, did not like any of them. I chose peach tulips instead. Two lips, I thought, maybe they will whisper, "I love you." Then I broke out into peals of laughter.
I got the right vase. I put them in, took off the florist’s tape that keeps the tulips closed. Will you mean what you say or will you lie to me? I ask whimsically. Who cares? Either way, it should be fun. After all, I am 62! I can handle anything now.