I whisper desperate words of encouragement: “Hang in there, darling Rose. Mummy loves her girl.” My fingers smooth creased leaves; cool swollen buds. Soft hands lend temporary strength to a pink, drooping head. Despite these efforts, every hour another leaf shrivels, turning yellow and then brown.
We fight two related battles: spider mites swarm already sun-ravaged flesh. Beasts smother axils; suffocate half-open petals; overwhelm bracts. But none are safe before the spray gun’s merciless tsunami. Necessity transforms me from absent parent into gleeful spree killer.
Three days ago, all was well. Now only far-fetched pleas remain: “Just stay alive until Daddy comes home. He is bringing reinforcements: rosemary, garlic, coriander. Together, you can win this summer war.”
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