I parked downtown one day instead of taking the bus, which was important because had I not, I would not have seen the solitary seagull preening on the grass beyond a huge elm in the Park Blocks.

There was a cantaloupe vine growing at the edge of the parking lot. It had two perfect, immature fruits. Was it planted with intent? Or did someone eating a melon throw the seeds out the window of the apartment above with no regard? Or perhaps it had appeared just for me, spread out bravely between warm red apartment house bricks and parking lot asphalt.

I left the lot and took a route that was not my usual way and, rounding a corner, encountered a glassy-eyed, foreshortened downtown dog, one of the breed of small barrel-chested animals you see trotting around on a leash. This one had an outrageous ruff of fine, dark fur that made it as wide as it was long, a walking square with a face full of attitude. Like the other downtown dogs, it looked as if it was scowling, but that's a trick of those glassy eyes.

A few yards along, I found a scraggly, leggy bush with a single pink rose blooming in the narrow wasteland between two apartment buildings. Sunlight, which only shines directly into that slot for a few moments a day, picked out every detail of that solitary flower

Why was I chosen to see these things?

I passed workmen laying a sidewalk outside a church. We did more than just nod -- we chatted a bit about the weather, about the pavement. None of us had any expectations of that conversation other than to pass a few pleasant moments.

All of these things have fortified me for the day. Whatever else happens, there will be the memory those two melons, the scowling dog, the friendly workers, and that single pink rose. The memory sticks because I have chosen to write about them.