Daniel is our friend on the 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 just know things. It’s as though information has wings here. It must have something to do with the seagulls, they’re trained messengers, or it’s the wind off the lake that carries conversations across the wires. All you have to do is stop at Mann’s Grocery Store and you’ll run into someone who will be able to tell you the day you arrived and how many bike rides you have taken. News just seems to travel.
I was pretty sure the rose bush was a gift from my cousin, Diane, to my Mom and Dad for their 50th Anniversary but I wasn’t certain. I question pieces of information like this all the time now and want to ask Mom but she’s not here to answer. Every year on my birthday, she would tell me the story of when I was born. This year I’ve forgotten the time of my birth. I guess it doesn’t matter but I’m sad she’s not here to tell me.
The little rose bush struggled along for eleven years under the eave off the porch adjacent to my parents’ bedroom. The final time Mom and I were here together for our birthdays, Dad transplanted the bush so it would be able to catch the rain water off the roof and get more sun. I suddenly developed an attachment to the little bush that refused to grow.
This year, when I went to check on it, I found a rosebud, the first one since the gift was given. It’s a rose everlasting—just like Mom.