Thoughts on an agate bead necklace....

My grandma Ida, whom I loved madly, grew roses that blossomed in crashes of color and scent, their heavy heads nodding under the weight of the petals. Huge, round, cabbage roses they were, perfumed of attar that drove bees mad as well. When the big flowers relaxed and let go of their petals, I would gather them in the folds of my dress and take them in to spread on a towel so they would dry. Their heady scent would hold, and ply within the drawers of my dresser throughout seasons of snow. My grandma, I would think of my grandma when opening, searching through a drawer for a hankie or winter layers.
Here are the petals, almost alive. Deep rose colors, magenta scarves, the dry pink rouge she wore on her cheeks, it is here. The whorls of ruby magenta blending to white are spread before me, and fifty years of life have fallen away. I am seven, in my grandma's garden, and know a love so desperately deep that years later, when fingering a necklace made of rose agate and pearls like dew, her flowers, her voice, the sound of her skirts rustling speaks to me and I cry with longing and love. It is perfect, this piece.