Jonny McCambridge: James’s rose bush and the passing of time

The photograph or film usually pricks the edge of some hidden consciousness, bringing back a forgotten memory or a latent feeling. Sometimes, even after looking at the image, my recollection remains indistinct, and I am instead satisfied just to study the expression of the subject, the smile on my son’s face and the sure knowledge that he was full of joy at the moment that I snapped the picture or recorded the footage. Jumping in puddles, sliding in the snow on his sledge, running with abandon through a field or swimming in a pool while on holiday.

But I am also often struck by how I have not taken anywhere near enough photographs over the years. Several months pass with nothing to show on my phone, no record of a life at all. When I think back on this time, I struggle to remember what happened in those periods. There is a tinge of regret at my carelessness, my habit of concentrating only on the moment and not recording events for future reference and enjoyment. I am forever telling myself to take more photos or videos due to the unreliability of memory.

When I am scanning the old pictures, there are however some patterns which repeat faithfully. Going back over the last nine years, always at the end of May, there will be photographs of a fabulous rose bush in my back yard, the images not quite doing justice to the stunning display of deep pink blooms.

My wife was pregnant when we moved into our current home. It was the first time I had ever owned my own garden and, fortunately, the previous owner had made significant efforts to enhance it. The garden was one of the features which most attracted us to the house when we first viewed it.

There was a charming little wooden arch which separated the paved area from the lawn. Coiled around the timber frame was a green climbing bush. Being ignorant of horticultural matters, I had no idea which kind of plant it was. To the best of my knowledge, it was as likely to sprout cucumbers as roses.

As my wife neared the point of giving birth, the days stretched, and the warmer air descended, and I started to notice little bright pink blooms beginning to force their way out of their green bulbs. Although in those early moments, intoxicated with the imminent prospect of becoming a father, I didn’t pay it much attention. I had other things on my mind.

Then, after a long and difficult labour, James was born. We brought him home the following evening and rested. The next morning was gloriously warm as we carried the new born infant into our back garden in the shimmering sun of the early morning.

It was then that we truly noticed the full majesty of the rose bush for the first time. Dozens of flowers had bloomed and the depth of the colour of the brilliant petals seemed to reflect the joy and excitement we felt at that time. A perfect and vibrant symbolism of the beginning of life.

The plant quickly became known as James’s rose bush. It has always been that way since and always will be.

At around the time of my son’s first birthday, when he was experiencing health problems and had a number of visits to hospital, there are photos stored of the resplendent rose bush.

At his third birthday, when he and I were struggling to adapt to a routine of day care, the phone has again captured the colourful bloom.

When he was turning five and close to the finish of his first year at school, there are pictures of him playing in the back garden with his rose bush as the backdrop.

By the time he reached seven, the bush had grown so much that, against the protests of my wife and son, I had to take the shears and trim it back to ensure that we could still fit through the arch. Undeterred, the pretty pink flowers rose again towards the sun.

Today is my son’s ninth birthday. Now he is a robust, healthy and mischievous child and it is hard to remember that he was once helpless or impacted by ill-health.

It is also around this time of the year that he emerges from his form of winter hibernation, when there are too many hours spent staring at the screen of his games console. The more clement weather attracts him into the back garden, and he rediscovers the joy of playing in the fresh air, of running around aimlessly until he is breathless, and the freckles begin to show at the top of his nose.

And once again, James’s rose bush is in full bloom, its beauty undiminished by the passing of the years. I take photographs as I always do. I try to get some of my son in front of the bush, but he is impatient and full of energy and I can only snap a few frames before he runs off again.

There is another compelling reason why James’s rose bush is worth studying, worth spending a little bit of time taking some pictures. I know that it won’t last. Soon, the bush will be barren once again.

I’ve probably got 10 days, two weeks at most, before the petals start to wither and die. Then they will fall off and I will be out with the yard brush, shovelling them into the brown bin.

The petals, until recently bursting with colour and life, will crisp at the edges and diminish in size, their brilliant pink replaced by a paler, more sickly shade as I brush them into a pile.

When I do this every year I am always struck by the speed of change, how quickly things that seem permanent can disappear.

It’s like being the parent of a young child; you think you have all the time in the world to enjoy the bright colours, to sample the spectacle. But it passes so fast, so terrifyingly fast.

Which is why I encourage myself to take more photos, record more videos and write more stories about my young son. I know that however, many thousands of words I write, it will never quite be enough.

Because soon those years will have passed and, unlike the beautiful petals on James’s rose bush, they are never coming back again.