"The one he picked is called 'Dream Come True,'" she said.
My brain immediately flew to all of my idiosyncratic life metaphors... the large bonsai tree that died the week my divorce was final, from which we saved one tiny shoot... planted it and let it take its own shape for a year before the cats ate the leaves... shaped it and let it grow back... the cats knocked it from the shelf. I replanted it in one of my vintage Fiesta mixing bowls after finding that it was absolutely root-choked and would have died had it not fallen. When my marriage is not going the way I want it to, it reminds me to water it.
All of this flew through my head in an instant.
"You better have picked the hardiest, strongest rosebush in the whole freaking store," I warned her. She replied that the branches were super thick and sturdy-looking. It was our daughter's that she was worried about, because it looked dainty and vulnerable.
I dug the holes, and we planted them.
Two weeks went by. Both kids dutifully watered them.
Four weeks.
Six.
My daughter's rosebush sprouted leaves in every direction overnight.
Seven.
He began to whine that "maybe [his] dream is dead." We began having quiet discussions as to whether it would be better to face the truth or replace it after he was in bed. I began to prepare him for the fact that sometimes plants don't change homes as well as people do.
Eight.
I see the tiniest change in color on one of the stems. Only then does it occur to me that growth in something this strong means being able to push through the tough shell. I whisper encouragement to it and say nothing to anyone in case I am wrong.
Nine.
A leaf is pushing its way out.
Ten:
Leaves everywhere.
Eleven:
It has a bud.
It's still closed, and there's no visible color, but there is hope. It has shoved its way through the thick skin it has created to protect itself; grown and produced something beautiful.
We still water it daily.
Some dreams just take longer to come true.
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