Last Rose of Summer

Every morning Sugar and I scurry outside into the brisk fall air while it is still semi dark. I am amazed that the grass is still green though the branches of the trees are naked and stark. The grounds keepers have dutifully shredded the fallen leaves into powered mulch and even the bushes have for the most part shed their greenery, except of course for the burning bushes who are molting but manfully trying to hang on to their foliage as best they can despite the inevitability of their autumnal enforced nap.

For the past few days I have been aware that the rose bush, whose last flower has long since fallen one petal at a time to the brown dirt beneath, has suddenly begun to produce buds again, fooled by the unseasonable warmth and sunshine. "Don't do it!" I want to whisper to this beautiful plant. "Hang on to your vitality. It will be stripped from you soon enough and you will turn old and pithy and incapable of flowering ever again. Don't use up all your strength on an Indian summer."

But I say nothing. I quietly walk by with my mouth shut, watching while the little plant strain to put forth new life, new growth. I am sure the cruel winter will descend with a vengeance and obliterate her hard work without a second thought. But I hold on to a sliver of hope - hope that the flowers will beat the snow, or somehow outlive it.

Every day the buds are a little bigger, a little looser, a little closer to unveiling their beauty. I hold my breath every morning as I go out the door, wondering whether they have bloomed. Every day they are closer. Then suddenly, one of their faces opens shyly and nods toward the warm sun. I heave a sigh of relief. At least one of them made it. But how long can it last?

For three full days the gentle rose opened fuller and fuller revealing deep peach and pink colors fading to a delicate ivory at the edges. I made Sugar stop for long minutes while I drank in the beauty and exquisite craftsmanship. How fortunate am I to be blessed by such incredible and awesome gracefulness! I wonder if any of my kids or neighbors have been captured by the rose's spell. I shall be sad when the flower is spent.

Perhaps this rose is wiser than I. Why hold back? Why not take every opportunity to produce beauty and fragrance while you still can? Why not bless those around you by being who you are despite the possibility of winter's advance? Yes, bloom in the Indian summers of life and glory in the pure joy of life. Winter will come soon enough.