The Wild Rose

I'm the Gardner  
He's the Wild Rose  
 
 
It wasn't a whirlwind romance, more like a glacial thaw in a neglected garden, a place where the promise of vibrant blooms lay buried beneath a thick layer of frost and tangled vines.
 
Year one: I viewed him as a particularly stubborn weed, a thistle masquerading as something potentially useful.  
 
I spent most of my time meticulously weeding around him, convinced he was a detriment to my carefully planned landscape. And, let's be honest, I got pricked. More than once. A sharp word here, a dismissive glance there – he had thorns, and he wasn't afraid to use them.  But he needed tending.    
 
Year two: I learned to prune around him, accepting his thorny existence as a necessary evil. I rationalized it as 'character building,' though mostly it was just me gritting my teeth and trying to avoid the sharp edges.  
 
Years three and four: I noticed a few unexpected, if prickly, blooms. A dry joke that actually landed, a moment of unexpected kindness – glimpses of something more than just a stubborn weed.
 
By year five, I realized he was the wild rose in my garden, stubbornly beautiful, and I'd become hopelessly entangled in his vines.  
 
 
Now, eight years later, I'm less the gardener and more the trellis, completely and willingly supporting his wild beauty.
 
And yes, he's finally learned to laugh, mostly at my meticulously crafted pique, especially when I recount the early days of thorn-related injuries. He still doesn't apologize, mind you, but the twinkle in his eye suggests he understands, finally, that even wild roses need gentle tending, and sometimes, a good laugh at themselves.
 
And that's the real bloom, isn't it? Not just the flowers, but the roots that have grown deep and intertwined. We've weathered storms, both literal and metaphorical, and the garden we've cultivated together, though unconventional, is uniquely ours.  
 
We're not just growing older; we're growing together, like two ancient trees whose branches have learned to lean on each other, weathering the seasons, knowing that even as the petals fade, the roots will hold firm.