Roses in December

I remember the moment but little about its context, so for that reason it has the contours of a dream. I was walking along Hart Road in Lexington, and I came across a walled backyard. "Miranda," the plaque read. "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.