Daniel is our friend on Washington Island who mows the grass at the cabin and grades the drive. He came by this evening while I was in the kitchen making dinner and I stopped peeling potatoes to go out and say, hi.
“The rose bush is still alive!” He said, surprising me.
How did he know about the rose bush? “Hi Daniel! How’d you know about the rose bush?“
“Oh, I just knew.” (Islanders tend to know special things. It’s as though information has wings here. Maybe the seagulls are trained messengers, or the wind off the lake carries conversations across the telephone wires.)
I was pretty sure the rose bush was a gift to my parents for their 50th Anniversary but I wasn’t sure. I question pieces of information like this all the time now and want to ask Mom but she’s not around to answer. Dad said the little rose bush had struggled along for eleven years under the eave off the porch beside their bedroom. The last time Mom and I were at the cabin together, Dad transplanted the bush so it would be able to catch the rainwater off the roof and get more sun. I developed an attachment to the little bush.
This year, when I went to check on it, I found a rosebud! It was the first one since the gift was given. I call it Rose Everlasting—just like Mom.