The gardener had been breeding roses for almost eighty years. He had always created the most beautiful of blooms. But now his hands were too twisted and his eyes too dim to do the delicate pollination.
These days his students, who loved him, did the work.
It was June and the last rose he had made with his own hands was ready. He stood beside it smelling its perfume.
The queen’s majesty touched its petals gently.
“It’s beautiful, will you name it please?”
His old eyes filled with tears. “I shall call her Elsa May, for my dear departed wife.”