Roses in December
Were there roses? I don't remember. But I do recall the gray stones of the solid wall and the magic of the place, as if snow wouldn't stick there, as if I could walk from the cold, gray winter of my life into some warm, enchanted place — just by strolling through the wrought iron gate.
I thought of Miranda today when I passed a still-blooming knockout rose on my walk to the office. It brought me back to "Roses in December" and that long-ago amble. It was, I realize now, one of the first times I realized the fantasies I could spin while moving through space. Now I have a much better idea.