Shelter in Place, San Francisco, California

I wondered aloud this week how soon the single stem of white (Iceberg) roses would fall under its own weight, but it seems I underestimated the branch’s strength. Probably half of the forty buds have now opened and still the stem is upright. It makes a beautiful bouquet. Behind the rose and climbing up and out is one of two bougainvillea, finally filled in enough to show off (what I’ve managed to hide is the vine’s twin, which seems to be on a different flowering schedule and is not yet ready for prime time). Last year, in trimming the pair, we accidentally pulled them from their trellis, but I’m happy to report that though they now loom more than arch toward our patio chairs, the plants have managed to stay upright, and promise a summer bright and red.

It feels like we are, for just a small minute, between two crises now - the virus’ first spike, and the upheaval of our country’s sudden racial reckoning, with both promising to reemerge and darken as the summer moves along. Cases of the virus are beginning to rise again, and predicted to nearly double the current death toll by September; the president seems bent on fanning the flames of racial unrest with his provocative trip to Tulsa, his conspiracy theories, his threats to intervene in Seattle, and his insistence that there be a full-fledged convention in spite of the tension and the risks. I dread the summer’s heat.

Yet here we are, the two of us still alive, still standing nearly as straight as our umbrella, still in relatively good health and emotional shape as we contemplate the near future, at least, from our little bed of roses. That’s something to celebrate for now.