Across the Pond

White on white, hard to capture: iceberg roses Mid January, and we just cut the last roses: Icebergs, a burst of fullness but serene and still, white on white, hard to capture in a photograph. Years ago, when I was in high school in Innsbruck, my good friend L. used to give me the last roses from her mother's garden. It was an annual ritual I looked forward to, always reserved for the end of October. Unlike mine, L.'s roses came in colors - red, yellow, a washed out orange. Their stems were  often scraggly, the leaves a little smaller than they might have been two months before, at the height of summer. The memory of the recurring gift includes that of the giver: L.'s green eyes, quick and sharp, the big yet humble smile as she passes the bouquet, three or four flowers, thorny, wrapped in aluminum foil and a damp paper towel. L. was the smartest in our class, an honor student through all grades. After graduation she enrolled in vocational school, to be trained as