Mom died eleven years ago today. I recently found the notebook I used as a journal as we spent her last days in the hospital, all my sisters, my brothers and myself. Of course we were sad, but it was also an amazing, healing time for us all.
What did I write? Weirdly, I wrote limericks and haikus. Maybe someday I'll share them here. But now I want to share this, for my sisters and brothers. I guess it's a poem. I called it "Tribute to a Rose," and it's dated March 6, 2001 -- the day after her funeral...
My mother is a rose,
The most beautiful of flowers.
So many different varieties,
All beautiful, all difficult to nurture.
In death, I see her as a pale pink rose, my favorite --
Exquisitely, heartbreakingly beautiful,
Soft, open to love -- both giving and accepting.
In life, she was a red rose --
The American Beauty.
Classical beauty, grace and style,
A true "lady" of a flower.
At times, something inside of her would cause her petals to deepen to burgundy --
Some inner, troubled darkness.
Still very beautiful, but somewhat disturbing to behold.
Our rose didn't always receive the special care she required.
Although her beauty was always evident,
At times her thorns predominated, making her difficult to tend to.
But in her final illness, we were at last able to give to her
What she needed to receive, and what we needed to give.
The proud, dark petals, and along with them, the thorns,
Fell away, revealing a new softness.
Now she is a beautiful, pale pink rose.
My favorite flower.
I will try to nurture the seeds that she planted in each of her children,
That we might also become like flowers in God's garden.
(Sure do miss you, Mom.)
