Short Story: April Showers And May Flowers

Short Story: April Showers And May Flowers

This piece has not been edited by the ShortbreadStories team.

Much like Scotland, today the weather report in Oregon was rain showers, some sun breaks, snow at 5,000 feet above sea level and possible hail in the coastal area. Actually, that has been the daily forecast for so many months I often wonder if some meteorologist really does check for any changes at all. It seems a set pattern.

Getting impatient to take my daily walk around the complex where I live ,walks that take me beside a happy little creek where a family of geese stay year round and I am able to greet the five or six goslings each year, I set out bundled up in my rain jacket with hood and warm gloves. I pass the tennis court where perspiring players are shaking hands over the net. And there is always the police patrol at six o’clock a.m. that follows me slowly until I turn off the street. He gives a little beep of his horn and waves. I wave back. He knows my routine, as do I.

Today it is not enough. I hurry through the ritual, arrive home and pull off my gloves. I open the patio sliding door and step out. I have been nursing a miniature rose for three years now. I find that mulching the pot well and nestling it in varied sizes of pots prepared for spring planting keeps it nicely. I have already pruned it back and within the last week have seen such amazing growth — even the setting of six tiny fairy buds await the sun on a crisp green plant with new life. I am excited.

Not to worry, though. The first deluge of the day suddenly opens up with sunshine filtering through and I have heavenly jewels of many colors to watch for a few moments before I decide to move the pot —the prettiest blue one I could find for the rose —out into the shower for a good healthy soaking.

I bent down, grasped the handles on the pot and lifted. It was not too heavy for me, and I took a couple of steps forward. I looked down at my little darling and nearly dropped the pot!

Not a bud remained on that plant. I wanted to cry. But a little sleuthing and I could see that they had been cleanly snipped off. And of course I wondered who would be so cruel as to steal the buds that would give me such pleasure with red, pink and white blossoms just the right size for a mini vase I had on a kitchen window sill. I stood with head bowed and heard the rain beating down. I backed up, I would return the plant to it’s protection . . .what protection?

I stopped, looked down over the pot to the patio floor and there stood a fluffy, winter survivor, a tan squirrel. I swear he had the most malicious grin on his face.