I know, I know. People always look at me funny when I say I believe in signs – like a pansy blooming in a bed of snow, a sunset that promises a beautiful tomorrow or my unlikelihood of growing a beautiful rose.
But this time, I had a sign that can never be disputed. These blooms are mine.
I deserve no credit. I am not a rose person. Roses are way too much trouble and yield too little satisfaction for all the work required.. Until now.
My friend, Linda Murrah, died of ovarian cancer in 1999. Three days later, our mutual friend, Susie Overstreet, gave me a rose bush to help soften the blow and we planted it together.. We named it Miss Linda. and maybe it bloomed a year or two, then I forgot about it and the flower bed got covered with mulch.
This year, unprovoked and unassisted, Miss Linda rose from the prison of her impacted soil. She came to life in a way I never could expect. I I didn’t even recognize my home when I drove down the street and saw a huge pop of color. Linda is trying to tell me something and I’m listening. She used to disturb my wind chimes when I said something ugly or smoked a cigarette. I wonder what she’s telling me now?