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The Yews and the Roses succeeds as both a portrait of community and a meditation on continuity. It reminds the reader that grace is often found in small, ordinary gestures—an invitation, a rose, a handshake scented with earth and memory. It’s a story that breathes, lingers, and leaves behind the quiet hum of a Sunday afternoon well lived.

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The Yews and the Roses

by Harry Arabian

The morning finally broke clear and bright after a week of drizzle, the kind of autumn light that turns every raindrop into a spark. Perfect weather for the last trim of the yew trees before their winter rest. I set up the old wooden ladder, the one that had seen more seasons than I could count and opened my horticulture guide to the section marked Dormancy Preparation. “Trim by one-third,” it reminded me—so I did, carefully, methodically, each snip releasing the scent of evergreen resin into the crisp air.

From my perch, I noticed Mr. Nick Papapoulos across the hedge, tending to his rose bushes with the same quiet devotion. He was dressed neatly as always—flat cap, pressed shirt, pruning shears gleaming in the sun. The roses, full and fragrant, looked ready for a photo in Better Homes & Gardens.

“Good work, Nick!” I called out between cuts. “Must be a special day for someone to deserve roses that fine.”

He looked up, smiled the gentle smile of a man who’s lived long enough to savor such mornings. “My grandson’s christening this afternoon at Saint Dimitri’s,” he said. “You and your wife are welcome to attend.”

I grinned. “We’ll actually be there ourselves—the Rebetika band’s playing at two in the hall.”

He nodded, eyes twinkling. “Then we’ll see each other twice, eh? Once for the soul, once for the spirit.”

The breeze shifted, carrying the scent of cut yew and fresh roses together—two gardeners, two traditions, one bright October day.

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When we arrived at Saint Dimitri’s, the churchyard shimmered with sunlight and the soft hum of conversation. The scent of incense still lingered from the morning service. Inside the hall, I noticed the roses—Nick’s roses—gracing the tables with quiet elegance. Their deep crimson and soft cream blooms had found their way into vases beside plates of koulourakia, coffee, and powdered sugar sweets.

Across the room stood Nick himself, beaming with pride. In his arms squirmed a restless little boy in a white christening outfit, his tiny fists tugging at the ribbon on his sleeve. The child’s mother hovered nearby, and when the priest passed, she lifted the baby’s hand to offer a shy wave.

Nick caught my eye from across the room and raised his free hand in greeting. I lifted my coffee cup in return. For a moment, the sounds of laughter and Rebetika tuning from the next hall mingled—the sacred and the festive overlapping like two halves of the same song.

Marie nudged me. “See?” she said. “You were right. Those roses were for a special day.”

Outside, the church bells began to ring, calling both worshippers and musicians to gather once more.

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By two o’clock, the church hall had transformed from a quiet coffee gathering into a swirl of sound and laughter. Tables were cleared, chairs rearranged, and the Rebetika band tuned their bouzoukis with the familiar metallic shimmer that always seems to stir something deep in the chest.

Marie and I found seats near the back, where we could still catch a glimpse of the courtyard through the open doors. Sunlight streamed in, carrying the scent of roses and the faint echo of children playing near the fountain.

Then the first chords began—low, steady, soulful. The singer’s voice rose like smoke, the kind that carries both joy and memory in equal measure. Before long, feet were tapping, shoulders swaying. Someone clapped in rhythm; another shouted “Opa!” as if the word itself could keep the moment alive.

I spotted Nick again near the front, his grandson now asleep in his daughter’s arms. He was nodding to the beat, his smile wide and unguarded, a man who’d seen many years but still felt the pull of a good song. One of the band members—an old friend of his, perhaps—called out, “This one’s for little Dimitri!” and launched into a quick, bright number that had the crowd clapping in time.

Marie leaned close and whispered, “You know, between your yews and his roses, this neighborhood still has roots.”

I nodded, watching as Nick’s roses, placed in simple glass vases, caught the late-afternoon light. Their petals glowed softly, as if listening to the music themselves.

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By the time we stepped out of Saint Dimitri’s, the sun had dipped low, painting the church’s stone walls in amber light. The last bouzouki notes lingered in the air, carried off by the same autumn breeze that had rustled my yews that morning.

Nick and his family were gathered by the steps—children darting between legs, women wrapping leftover sweets in napkins, and proud Grandpa still holding court, telling stories to anyone who’d listen. The little boy, Dimitri, was fast asleep again, one tiny hand curled around his grandfather’s shirt collar.

“Beautiful day,” I said as we passed.
“The best,” Nick replied. “Everything grows better with good company.”

We exchanged a handshake—his palm still faintly scented with roses—and Marie and I walked home under the mellow light of early evening.

Back in our yard, the trimmed yews stood neat and still, their dark green edges catching the last rays of sun. I leaned the ladder against the wall, brushed the clippings from the walk, and paused for a moment, listening. The world felt unusually quiet, as if holding its breath between seasons.

Marie placed a small rose from the church on the kitchen sill—a gift from Nick’s wife, she said. Its petals had begun to curl at the edges, yet its fragrance filled the room.

I looked out toward the yard, where the shadows had deepened, and thought of how every act of care—whether pruning, planting, or simply showing up—has its season.

And somewhere, between the scent of roses and yew, I realized the neighborhood had grown just a little closer that day.