It came from Uncle Carl and Aunt Edith's yard, an offshoot from under the shrub by their gate. During bloom season, it was my self-appointed job to keep a fresh flower in Grandma's rose bowl. It was an excuse to stop in for just a few minutes every day or so, and it was a task that had a beginning and a middle and an end, so could not turn into a long difficult to end conversation. The flowers of that plant were a deeper darker pink than this, but they were rugosa rose, with the crinkled leaves, the delicate veined petals, and the long tips to the sepals. And they were fragrant, for the first thing grandma did, when I brought in a new rose, before I cleaned out the bowl and put it in the water, was take my hand that held the flower and pull it to her face so she could inhale its perfume. It made us both happy.