I’ve always adored my name. I love being named after an herb with cute lavender blossoms. I love the nicknames I’ve been called over the years: Rose, Ros, Rosa, Rossmary, Romary. I suppose it’s nice to be known, to be named, and to be loved. 

I think of my name in deep red, with a strong “R” sound that rumbles the beginning of both my name and the color’s. I think of white roses, playfully painted red in the queen’s garden. The red color imitates ladybug stickers speckled on my childhood bedroom walls, the wavy red hearts I cut out for Mother’s Day cards, and poppies over grass fields. It’s all things I love.

Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day, which is red roses’ most popular day of the year. As such, I remember what red, and roses, and love have always meant to me. It’s never just been about the color, nor whatever my humanities class deems red to symbolize. Red has always been more than a stop sign, more than anger, more than passion. It’s a quiet, warm, safe presence in the arms of my mother, wearing her red coat in the snow. It’s the saving color of my inhaler when I’m sick and the assurance I’ll get better. Red today is different from my red yesterday. It changes by the second—lively and playful, like a child’s flushed cheeks after playing tag, then it’s anxiously silent when red velvet curtains unveil the stage. Red reveals the start of the production, the front of a rainbow, the Christmas wreath bow, and new beginnings. It pulses life into being.

Roses are more tangible than red. I can hold a rose with care or prick my fingers. Red roses will line every grocery store, flower shop, and aisle at Michaels today. Roses have never only meant Valentine’s to me, though. They are more than just a flower, more than just my name. Rose is the name passed down through my family, from my maternal grandfather’s last name to my mom’s last name. Rosa is also the name of my paternal grandmother, Rosemarie is the name of my aunt, Rosemary is the name of me. Roses are soft like their kindness and their acts of giving, their petals’ love. They’re also sturdy, like their stem—resilient and sharp. Roses can be both. I hope to live up to the name.

I’m grateful today to be loved, to be named, to be known. I’ll continue to strive to share the same beauty that roses do, through my kindness, my art, and my words. And, I’ll continue trying to be my best self, reaching forever for the sun until I’m in full bloom.