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One stormy winter day I walked through a barrier of forced-air heat into the super market and smack into the central display of miniature roses. Red roses flaunted their florid beauty at the top of the pyramid. Yellow roses titled golden heads as if peeking out of an eye's corner in hopes of enticing a lover. Pink roses radiated childhood's bounce--faces turned in all directions to capture every joyful scene.
Decorously seated on the back shelf, half-way down, a white rose reposed. Her face tilted down modestly--waiting. The color reflected the swirling snow outside, but unlike the passion of the storm--here reflected peace and patience. I was not the only one waiting for Spring.
I brought her home wrapped carefully in double plastic bags as insulation from freezing temperature. She rode quietly on the back seat of my little white Jetta, not making her presence known other than with an aura of peace. Fifteen miles of twisting winds slammed snow against first one side of the car and then another, but inside the car heater hummed warmth and from the back seat peace permeated the interior.
We came in through the walk-out basement door, up the wide landinged flight of stairs and turned at the top to walk down the long hall to the corner room where I spend much of my time at the computer. The little white rosebush huddled against my arm while my hands clutched packages. I placed her carefully on a shelf of the white painted wrought iron stand in the window. She seemed cheerful--at first. In a few days she drooped with weariness. The white petals sagged as if she had no strength to retain them. Had the trip through the winter storm been too violent for her delicate form?
I carried her to the dining room table, where I'd spread layers of newspapers. There I turned my meager skill to saving her life. I trimmed the blossoms from the bush. I turned her out of her pot, separated the sprigs of life and arranged them in a new, larger pot where a careful mix of black potting soil received her roots. Water dipped out of the aquarium poured from the spout of the royal blue watering pitcher evenly soaked her roots.
Another day passed, one of anticipation mixed with some anxiety. Then she began to recover. She lifted her leaves to gather sun-rays from the easterly facing window. She shivered, as if in delight at her new generous pot and rich potting soil. In a few more days her leaves were all dancing in every morning sun.
Now sometimes they tremble with baby giggles as she watches from her window seat and sees Spring creeping nearer and nearer each day. Together we wait.
When she again blooms in white wonder I will rejoice, but I cannot love her more than I do now.
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