It’s been a tough last couple of months around here, both communally and personally, so when I walked out on to the back porch this morning to take in my daily dose of sanity stabilizing, cold fresh air, I was greeted by the most pleasant of surprises: the last rose of summer.
Not that it should have been a surprise at all; Z had pointed it out to me, through the kitchen window, a few days before. My head was just too full of distraction and the usual nonsense that makes up my daily life to fully process what she was saying.
Z is always a few steps ahead of most people when it comes to picking out these little gifts of nature, so, needless to say, Z is always miles ahead of me.
But there it stood, on this cold November, post-Thanksgiving morning, standing straight and tall; solitary, but proud.
While all its floral peers had long succumbed to frozen nights and early snow, this fair weather holdout managed to hunker down, wait its turn and blossom at the moment when it was most needed.
Sure, there were more impressive blooms throughout the season; bunches upon bunches brightening up the garden.
But none, as welcome and appreciated as this single rose, the last of a summer now long since passed.
It knew its season.
A season of one.
And amid the cold, dark world of inevitable winter still to come, we’re all the brighter for it…today, much more than yesterday.