The last bloom in our flowerbed, a tiny pink rose that smiled each morning at the beginning of my morning walk, finally met it’s match. It couldn’t overcome last Friday night’s hard frost, though on Saturday morning it was still beautiful to behold.
Weighed down by frost, shivering with cold, it’s brave brightness greeted me one last time.
Frost on the rose, I thought and then wondered why those words sounded so sad. Frost on the pumpkin sounds cheery and seasonal. It conjures up a child’s excitement over Halloween and the good smells of a Thanksgiving feast. But frost on the rose sounds wrong. Sick and wrong, my sister-in-law would say.
And she’s right.
Especially concerning this sweet little rose, I purchased and planted because it reminded me of the pink fairy rose my grandfather planted on his farm and dearly loved. The rose I fertilized and pruned because it reminded me of the fairy rose bush my mother planted in her flowerbed in memory of her father.
Lovely memories killed by frost until the bush comes back to life next spring.
Spring and new growth and longer days seem far away on a chilly, dark November weekend when we bowed to winter’s arrival by setting the clocks back. How will I survive winter’s drabness without the rose’s colorful hello each morning? How can I hang on to the promise of spring?
How can I keep those memories alive?
Suddenly, the answer comes. I will make a poster of this picture of my cheery friend. I will hang it right beside the door where will watch me put on my coat before going out in the cold. It will warm my heart and make winter easier to bear.
It will give hope.