So many times, the little things seem to mean the most.

The little things seem to be what memories are made of and mean the most.

All too often, and often all too late, we realize that other things that seemed so awfully important really were not, and those that were insignificant at the time come back almost tiptoeing into our thoughts as we think we think of other things.

Some time ago I brought back a couple of plants from my mom and dad’s house. Now it is half my house in Cadillac, awaiting the right buyer. I lived in it a few months my graduation summer, and a few weeks when I was too far from our Jackson trailer visiting the folks and suffered a very sad end to my very first pregnancy.

Good times. Sad times. And the memories from within that house bring back prompters of laughter, and of tears. There were the times when I was about to graduate. And those shortly after I did. There were the Christmas times when our own kids were a part of it and that love and laughter met us at the door and followed us back home.

And there were the horrible times, when dad lay dying in the family room until he was removed to a hospital where he left us and went on home. And years later mom lay dying in that same room.

Hard moments.

To go back to that house more than two years later is still difficult, but it is in the little things we find the hope. I “needed” to uproot a couple of plants and bring them home with me. One flourished. A bush of some sort. Someday I will know if it is one that flowers or sits green and provides a bit of shade for a bunny or smaller plant, but for now, it sits plopped in a plastic tub in its imported dirt from Cadillac from whence it sort of came.

Maybe nurtured there from a long seed planted by loving hands, watered as needed, nourished by the folks. Perhaps blown there, sort of a runaway airborne from a neighbor’s plant, or even a deposit from a bird that fed at the feeders.

The one I hold on to most is a bit of a rosebush brought home one day. The long bare branches this spring looked green and strong, were the beginnings of what I hoped would be at least a third generation to see its beauty.

For once it had been Grandma’s, stretching along her white picket fence, in her little oasis of a place where the Malleable Iron Company stood boldly near by. When Grandpa died, she later moved in with her son, my dad. A snippet of the plant moved with her.

And that rosebush has withstood a change of location and the passage of time. Again. To this house, and sits waiting for planting, and time for us to have to pick the spot and do the planting.

These bits of bushes wait to be planted. To be tended. To be cared for. To be the memory makers from long ago.

The rosebush sits waiting. I walk by and feed the birds. Hurrying off to get it done so I can hurry back to the house and hurry off to the next thing to do.

But then, something took my glance away. A second glance took my breath away. For their next to the old dried up root, with only the tip of it touching water in that big plastic tub, there was a bit of green.

A couple of little leaves and nothing more. Nothing less. The resurrection to life what is otherwise dead. The resurrection of memories snuffed out by busyness. The resurrection of love that continued through the generations two back to this one yet, and maybe to be passed on to the ones beyond me, a special generational memory growing yet in one more garden, one more heart.

This is the day that memory gets planted. Again.

To plant. To nurture. To pass on another chapter. Thanks, God, for the couple of tiny leaves and the holy nudge.