About four years ago, right around this time, I was at Kroger.
Out front, they had one of those seasonal plant displays — you know the kind, right alongside the overpriced ceramic pumpkins in the fall or all the beachy trinkets they roll out every summer.
Usually I walk right by that stuff.
The plants weren’t anything special.
But tucked in there, almost hidden, was a plastic bag with a small rose inside — labeled John Davis Climbing Rose.
I knew that rose. She’s a beauty.
I told myself no. I was there for groceries, not plants.
Got what I needed, went home, started putting everything away…
and I couldn’t stop thinking about that rose.
It was one of those moments where your gut doesn’t whisper — it shouts.
I googled the rose, read everything I could, and paced the backyard looking for a spot she might like.
I grabbed my keys and drove straight back.
And there she was, still waiting — one tiny green tendril poking out of that plastic bag.
This time, I didn’t hesitate.
I wasn’t there for groceries anymore.
I was there for her.
The advice said: don’t prune for the first three years.
Let her sprawl, climb, get wild.
I loved that idea — a little bit of feral tucked into the garden.
The first couple of years, she was shy.
The third year, she bloomed like she meant it.
And this spring, in year four, it was finally time to shape her a little — and wow, did she ever respond.
Now she’s nestled between the lilacs and the comfrey — full, wild, blooming like she’s always belonged here.
A small moment of listening, a few years of patience — and now, every time I walk outside in April, she reminds me.
When something calls to you:
buy the rose.
