I was young when the journey first called—
a month across Africa’s breath and dust,
Jay and I, tents beneath stars:
Zimbabwe, Zambia, Malawi, Tanzania—
and a summit kissed by the wind on Kilimanjaro.

One day in Malawi, the hospital bare—
brick walls, no water, yet life still pulsing.
A mother cradled her newborn,
and I felt the ache of tenderness and justice.

At the school, laughter soared like birds—
children dancing in uniform joy.
Little Rose took my hand, her name echoing mine,
eyes bright as sun on lake water.

And Joseph, with boldness of a lion’s heart,
asked me, “Will you dance with me tonight?”
I said yes, believing all would rise to dance—
but only he and I stood in the fire’s circle.
He led, I followed, and fear melted
into the music of shared humanity.

Years passed.
Jay returned with vision and purpose—
an optometry school, new sight born of service.
He took Zachary, our son, across the ocean—
a rite of passage, a sacred remembering.

And now, again, the journey calls—
this time, our whole family:
Alex, Aiden, Evan, and me.

At the lodge, I met her—another Rose,
a mother of five, twins among them.
We laughed at the rhythm of multiples—
I, a triplet of girls; she, two girls nested in boys.

She made me bracelets—Rose and Love—
threaded in colors of kinship.
I wore them like prayer beads of connection.

Each day, we offered care in clinics,
giving and receiving in equal measure.
And when I returned, weary and full,
I found her gifts waiting—
her light woven into every strand.

And then—the sign.
At journey’s end, with bags packed and eyes misted,
a rose bush bloomed in the hotel lot—
white, soft pink, wild fuchsia.

Time stilled.
I breathed deeply.

Noah, our son in the stars,
had once told me—
“When you need me, find a rose.”

I found many.
And he found me.

Long before, in France,
a flower whispered to me—Lacuna Prunella,
white blossoms cradling leaves shaped like a rose.

In my shaman dream, I remembered:
My name is White Rose—
child of the Celestial,
bearer of pure love.

Across decades, across worlds—
from a village firelight dance
to bracelets woven in quiet grace,
from mountain peaks
to birth beds with no sheets,

I have remembered again and again:

Being Rose is not a name.
It is a way of seeing,
a way of loving,
a way of being—
a bloom that never fades.