Simone Rocha SS15.
St Andrew Church, London Fashion Week
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In the garden last winter, there was a rose in the place where my father used to sit and tell me stories as a child. How long it had been there and how it could’ve survived, nobody knows. But it was there, resilient as spring bloom atop the snow. I couldn’t help but stare at it. I wanted to pick it up, but my fingers were numb, and its thorns dared me to try. I kept walking, away from the rose and the place where he’d sat, but I did not make it far. A giant wind snuck up and blew a sheet of powder on me, broadsided like a horrible prank. In that very instant I wanted to return home. When I turned back, the rose was gone, along with all of the stories my father used to tell me.