She would cough terribley, and she would pretend that she was dying, to avoid being laughed at.

And I should be obliged to pretend that I was nursing her back to life.

To be sure, an ordinary passer-by would think that my rose looked just like you- the rose that belongs to me.

But in herself alone, she is more important than all the hundreds of you other roses.

Because it is she that I have watered; because it is she that I put under the glass globe; because it is she that I have sheltered behind the screen; because it is for her that I have killed the caterpillars; because it is she that I have listened to when she grumbled, or boasted, or even sometimes when she said nothing.

Because she's my rose.