Pink rose flower.

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 peace.

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 entrance.

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 ( ) -- submitted by: Tom Rogers ]

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