Bring in rose, it said.
I looked at my note to myself from earlier in the day, and my mind said, Who is Rose?
Then my brain went searching and turned up an image of an old schizophrenic lady I'd once cared for at a psychiatric hospital. If Rose was going outside (or inside, for that matter), she first turned her raincoat completely inside and out. The coat was a must, in any weather. Her umbrella was a must too, and she dutifully opened and closed it three times before making her transition in or out.
You can imagine my surprise when my brain conjured up Rose and tried to parse the command to bring her in.
A moment later, I laughed out loud. Bring in rose!
I had bought a little red bush-rose way back on Valentine's Day, and I've been planning to transplant it outdoors. In an effort to tackle my GDD (Garden-Deficit Disorder), I'd tried to prepare the rose for a smooth transition from house life to yard life, by setting it outside in the daytime to get some sun, to "harden off," and to develop an immunity to the cat next door.
Unfortunately, the first day I did that, I forgot the rose and left it out all night. It only lost about a third of its leaves as a result.
To steel myself against further mishap, I penciled a reminder-note on the second day of my battle for the roses. Now I read the note again. Bring in rose. Why yes, I can do that, I thought. Though, for good measure, I considered opening and closing an old umbrella— as a charm to make sure we'll get red roses come June.
Labels: writing in place