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I sometimes recall the moment when the gods of flowers tested my oneness with them. I was four years old and my cousin and I were left for the day in my aunt's care. Seated on the steps of my Aunt Emma's back porch next to my cousin I surveyed her garden of peonies, roses and lilies, each one demanding my attention in a display of fragrance and color. As my aunt leaned over me her shadow cast a brief moment of coolness to the hot July afternoon. She placed a bright yellow rose in my hand and another in my cousins hand. I will never forget pressing my face into the center of the flower and breathing the thick fragrance of ice tea. As I felt its softness against my check I glanced toward my cousin who was vigorously and methodically pulling the petals from his rose. "Stop, You're killing it!" I shouted. My own voice seemed to come from someone else. My rage frightened me as tears came to my eyes. I wrenched the rose from my cousin's hand and ran toward the far side of the garden. There in a crouching pose, with my bare knees tucked under my chin, I carefully surveyed the damage. Bringing the disfigured rose to my lips I kissed it "to make it better." I began to gently infold it with my own immaculate pink rose for the comfort of a healing caress it would bring to us both. I have often said, to those closest to me, that I have but one request. That when it is time for my spirit to be separated from my body that I be taken into my garden. For it is there that I shall be welcomed with jubilant celebration and gently guided along a peaceful path toward natures own kingdom of the sun and other the stars. There, once again, I will hold the rose in my hands only this time I will see eternity. --Stuart Wisong |