Roses

We moved to Detroit when I was 7 years old. I didn't know anyone. I didn't have any friends yet.
The first house on the block belonged to an elderly Greek man named Mr. Pappas. He was widowed and lived by himself in this huge house. In the backyard Mr. Pappas grew prize-winning roses. His backyard was absolutely beautiful. Colors were everywhere. The air always smelled so good.
Being all by myself, I would wander through the block - I wasn't allowed to cross the street yet. The alley behind our house was always interesting. I left our backyard and went to Mr. Pappas's yard through the alley. I stood there and was enthralled by the beautiful flowers. So I picked some. However, I had been taught that if it wasn't mine I couldn't keep it. So I gathered a lovely bouquet (probably without much stem to them because of the thorns) and went to Mr. Pappas's front door. I rang the doorbell and waited for the door to be opened.
Mr. Pappas was quite short with little hair on his head. He opened the door and smiled at me. I said, "I picked these flowers for you."
He thanked me and told me what a beautiful bouquet I had picked for him. I went home.
You know that old saying, "Loose lips sink ships"? My ship was sunk by my mom when I came home and boasted about giving Mr. Pappas some flowers. I couldn't believe she was mad at me for picking some flowers when he had hundreds of them.
We were new in the neighborhood and I had stolen this sweet man's flowers that he had worked very hard to get just right. He was always in his garden weeding, tweaking and doing whatever else he needed to do to get such beautiful roses. In one fell swoop the new kid on the block obliterated a hand full of his roses.
In my own defense, I had to work hard reaching through the gate - hanging onto the iron gate with one hand so I wouldn't fall through while reaching with the other hand, risking my skin against thorns, just to gather the pretty flowers for Mr. Pappas.
I never did it again.