All These Imaginary Things

There is a particular rose bush in my garden in possession of blossoms which can only be described as "dusty red".  Photographs do not properly capture the effect:
cameras have a hard time with reds

I like this particular plant for a number of reasons.  First and foremost, it manages to survive in spite of my clumsy care, and has only given me more blooms every summer since we moved in.  Secondly, it is a rose, and it smells quite sweet, and I like pretty things that smell sweet.  Thirdly, it has lovely thorns, which is every bit as important as having lovely blooms.  Fourth, the fact that every time I look at it, at the particular shade of its petals, I think, Rose Dust, and I smile a little nostalgic smile.

Rose Dust was the name of my imaginary friend.  Let me clarify- the imaginary friend I had when I was somewhere between the ages of six and eight.  In retrospect I think her name was nicked from My Little Pony, or some such (and a quick internet search verifies that foggy memory).  Anyway she was everything that was perfect to the little girl that was me- long golden hair, blue eyes, perfectly poised, and sixteen.  Lord, yes, the magical age that was sixteen.

(Little did I know how much better my thirties would be.)

My other imaginary friends (because why would you have only one?) were a pair of cheetahs.  Yes, cheetahs.  I can't remember both of their names, but one of them was Honeysuckle.  I do, however, distinctly remember my mother telling me that I might ought to not take my invisible friends with me to school, as people don't always understand that sort of thing.  I also remember explaining to the perfect, glittering girl and the two cheetahs that they couldn't come with me, but that they should wait for me.

I wonder if they still do.

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