The trellis on the garden wall was leaning. As a result, the pink roses drooped to the side and hung down, in a lazy off-setting manner. They were crooked. “Like my mouth,” she thought. Since the accident Laura couldn’t keep up with the things that needed done. The roses seemed to say “The person who lives here needs help. They would like to keep me up-but cannot.”
She sighs as she struggles to get her clothing on. It is now a laborious process; sheer drudgery. But then she hears the call. A small song bird’s revelry pierces her early morning consciousness. Strong and vibrant, it lifts its voice as if to remind Laura, “There are still new things to come,” and “You can find your place in the sun Laura; as you can see-I have,” and “He clothes (even) me in His splendor, why not you then also, my dear one?”
Laura’s crooked smile reappears. She feels a light refreshing, as if the rain has come at last on a long summer day and strikes ones face and back and neck…and then a cool breeze picks up and ripples across the body.
“I will reinvent myself,” Laura decides. Her quickie wheelchair tires squeak as they travel the length of the kitchen floor. Sunlight strikes her golden hair and she cannot see the flame of radiant beauty so evident in her profile. The light waits to play off the bridge of her nose, the slight angle of her cheek, and her sweet, smiling, rosebud lips.