Waiting For A Rose
What is a rosebud? It is a closed or only partially open flower. It
is defined in creative writing as having artistic value and in that
format, it is a pretty young woman.
My grandmother lived in a small town in Arkansas. Population: Few.
With my memory as my guide, I surface many feelings of her. Doting,
strong-willed, selfless, patient, and most of all loving. Adding more
would be necessary, but not required.
She lived in a log cabin style home on a hill in the center of
town. The yard of the home was as long as your legs could carry you.
The gate to the steps, that led to the home, always reminded me of the
gates to heaven. And the climb to the top of them seemed like an
endless journey. The appearance from the outside spoke tranquility and
The inside was tastefully decorated in mostly antique furnishings.
Always a rainbow of colors and everything that accessorized the home
was cause for wonder and fascination.
I would spend some weekends at this home and typically one week
every summer. For me, even now as an adult, I do not recall being in a
greater place than Wee Pine Knot, the sign that hung above the doorway
The large dining room table was hardly ever used for a meal. It was
a used for a meeting of super heroes, a phone call with the President,
or a meeting with imagined people in awe of my clever words. Even as I
write, my mind tours the home inch by inch, just as I might have
discovered it originally.
My memory of the home has always been tied directly to the memory
of my Baba. Everything just as it should be. A haven of dreams and fond
memories. This was not Wee Pine Knot, it was Baba.
I recently drove by this house after having driven by it many times
since her walk home with Jesus. For the many times before, that I have
viewed the home, I have squinted my eyes. Not to see it's
deterioration, unattended lawn and general decay. But, after this
visit, I opened my eyes fully.
The yard was a manageable walk. Much like any ordinary property
surrounding a home. The steps appeared to be only a few to the top. And
the gates no longer remain. The home now seems very ordinary, almost
like any other home. Her spirit has escaped this grand place.
In a dream recently, I toured the home for the last time. Every inch
of it was exactly as I had remembered it. All of the belongings were
neatly in place. But, with one big difference. The walls were blue. In
fact, everything was blue. From the floor to the ceiling, and
everything else included. Every inch of the inside was blue.
So, just as she has separated herself from this house, I walk away
also. It is no longer chained to her memory. She has told a story, at a
point in my life that I could understand, that the inside of the home
was always painted blue. And only during the times, that a true love
would come, would she change the color.
She lived as a rosebud. Still able to change colors and bring
beauty to this place, if only for brief moments in our time together.
But, now she has blossomed in a place where the flower never dies. And
by erasing what appeared to be, she radiates the magnificent color of a
full rose forever. And blue lives no more.
~ Tom Rogers ~
Copyright © 2011
All Rights Resrved
[ by: Tom Rogers, Copyright © 2011 ( firstname.lastname@example.org ) -- submitted by: Tom Rogers ]
All Rights Reserved.