The old van rumbles down the bumpy roads. The sun is in the sky, the leaves on the trees. The Nashville air sweeps through the empty valley, while the air of wealth and influence permeates the cracked windows. Mansions creep into the peripheral vision. High Kings and Queens on grass thrones. They are above us, but they fit right in.

She will grow here, as will her golden hair in the golden sun. Her blue eyes will mirror the sky until no one has ever heard of clouds. She will be a Southern beauty without a shadow of a doubt, but her shadow will spread. She will do something good and great. She may never live as a queen in a mansion. There may never be a king. But she will bloom like a Tennessee rose. And the roses welcome her home, as the old van bumps over gravel and stops on the big hill, where there is not a mansion, but a house bursting with all the love that was ever had to offer to any belle, any beauty, any queen, or any rose.