Outside my back door is a tiny climbing rose. They planted it last year, and I'm ashamed to say, I didn't even notice. In my rush to get through my days, I missed the growth, the unfurling of new leaves, the opening of new buds. It's rather barren right now, dormant and haggard looking. I wandered outside this morning, coffee in hand and just stared at that little bush. I sat down on the cold concrete, pulled off those dead leaves that for whatever reason refused to let go their tiny grip, and said, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't aware of you and missed the pleasure of your beauty. I wish I'd known you were here, I would have tended to you, made sure you were properly cared for. Trimmed and plucked, cleaned and mulched. I would have loved you and in return, you would have shared yourself with me. You would have allowed me to enjoy the cycle of your life, the aroma of your exquisite presence. You would have granted me the honor of touching your fragile petals and feeling the nature of your life."
Even now, hours later, it still pulls at me. Tugs at my heart and makes me hope that I slow down. That I don't miss those simple little moments that just might change the course of my life, and it makes me wonder, will I be here for the next unveiling?
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