A New Home: A Sign

“If I saw just one rose, it would be a sign that I should live here.” 

Something had awakened Nettie, who was sleeping soundly in the large, master bedroom of her new home.

“That shadow looks like the profile of a wooden Indian sitting by the bedroom door,” thought Nettie, as she opened her eyes. “It can’t be, as my furniture is not being delivered until tomorrow.”

She had settled in for the night on a queen-size air mattress covered in fresh sheets and a new, brown and gold linen bedspread with a thread-count of four hundred. She was vaguely conscious of the rayon scent from her new bedspread, intermingled with the smell of new rubber from the air mattress.

“This is the height of luxury and quite comfortable too,” she thought, rolling over and going back to sleep. “I could live like this for a long time.”

The place Nettie had rented was large, old and in need of repairs, but seemed relatively secure and private. On her way over to it, she had purchased groceries and cleaning supplies. Just as promised, her key was in the mailbox. Nettie had immediately cleaned the refrigerator and stove. A fine layer of dust covered everything, so she tackled the kitchen cupboards, as well. Then, she took down all of the screens and did the windows, too.

Much to her surprise, she had discovered a wild rosebush with tiny, white rosebuds that had made its way through the window casing, into one of the front rooms. She picked a few buds and placed them in a cup of water.

“That was my sign,” thought Nettie, awakening with the early morning sunlight streaming into her bedroom. She vaguely recollected her recent trip across the country and the face of a native man hiking in the mountains.

The words of an elderly friend who she had just lost, came to mind, as well.

“So, now do I have to drive like a white man?” he had asked her. He was a white man, having fun on his new scooter.

“You came with me,” she thought. “I am safe in my new home.”