Rose Garden

She can see the blossoms from her window and wants to go outside and stick her nose in them, but Mamma has warned her, twice already, not to get her dress dirty before church.  If she climbs off of the porch and treks across the side yard to Mamma’s Rose garden, she’ll be in big trouble.

The roses are gigantic this morning. From where she sits on the porch, she can see the bumble bees hopping and buzzing from one bloom to the next – taunting her, really, with their freedom.  She sighs and leans her head against the pillow, kicking her foot against the painted floor boards until the swing starts to move back and forth, its creaky rings melodically protesting.

“Sundays,” she says.  “I hate Sundays.”  She raises her voice in protest. “I don’t think God cares if my dress is soiled, Mamma.”

But Momma doesn’t answer; she’s too busy getting herself ready for church to respond.

“Besides,” she says to whomever can hear her, “God made those roses.  He made them to bloom today.  I think God wants me to smell them in my church dress.  Right, God?”

But God doesn’t answer either; He’s too busy hearing confession or prayers or something like that from the early service attendees. 

Ruth continues to kick the board, rocking the swing until the bench is perpendicular to the porch railing – back and forth – until she launches herself clear over the railing, over the hedge, and lands with a thump on the gravel driveway.  Her hands have little pebbles embedded in them.  Her dress, while still white, is torn at the lacy seam.  She looks around, realizing no one has seen her fly – and laughs.

“The bees made me do it, Mamma, and God made those bees, right?”