“Stand up straight, Rose,” her mother said while she wrapped chiffon around her, estimating the amount needed.
“Do you like it, Rose?” She was designing her prom dress. It was only pinned together.
She thought about the way Echinacea had decorated her rooms. Decorated was not the correct word. Echinacea didn’t decorate. She made art, finding places to hang shawls and skirts. Learning from Echinacea, Rose decided, had been as exciting as any art class she ever took.
excerpt from my memoir, The Garden Girls Letters and Journal