I have a rosebush. It is a flori­bunda with deep red–almost maroon–flowers. I’ve been working on it for a few years now, and I prune it when it needs pruning, and I water it every other day, and I feed it and rotate it (it is in a large pot) and clip off dead blooms and whatnot. I care for it, rather like some people care for pets. It is a thing that I am proud of. Proud that I have kept it alive (I have a bad track record with plants); proud that I have been able to transform it from the scraggly little runt I bought at a Home Depot somewhere into a big, [ . . . ]

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