About what costs nothing, yet is beyond price.

In my childhood, Mom grew roses in the garden.

She would wait for them to bloom.
She would admire their blossoming.
And when the birthday of someone important came, she would drive to the garden, take big scissors, and cut the roses she had grown herself—twisting them into an imperfect bouquet.

The stems were never perfectly straight.
The blooms were definitely not champions of beauty.

She would wrap the stems in damp paper and, carefully placing them on the back window of the old Zhiguli, drive them over.

As a child, I would watch that clumsy process,
that sudden “undoing” of a blooming garden, and think:
maybe she’s trying to save money?
Wouldn’t it be easier to just stop at a flower market and buy some?

This morning, getting ready for Mom’s birthday,
I took big scissors and went out to my own roses.

With imperfect stems.
With unpolished blooms.
I twisted them into an uneven bouquet.

Of course, it’s easier to stop at a market.
And more logical
than carrying wrapped stems all the way from Vilnius to Panevėžys.

But I will carry them.

Now I understand—
back then, Mom wasn’t saving money.
She was cutting love with big scissors
and giving it away.

The weekend has arrived—
a perfect chance to hug the ones who taught you love.
Or at least give them a call.
Without “saving” a kind word.