Roses for Remembrance

ROSES FOR REMEMBRANCE


I was thinking of my earliest thoughts of Memorial Day. I was just very small, and my mother and grandmother had passed the year before. We were headed to the cemetery to lay flowers on their graves. I was a child, and of course did not understand the entire Memorial Day thing. But I did enjoy cutting the flowers.


See, my grandmother had taken great pains to lay out a flower garden. I remembered walking with her through the neatly laid rows, and her carefully taking out-loud mental notes of what each flower was. I loved smelling them. There were columbines, our Colorado State flower, and there were teeny tiny roses, and big flowery roses, and Peonies, Iris, Sweet Peas, Tulips. So many flowers, and too many for a child to remember. One of the bushes was this simple, little rose with only a single layer of petals. I was not impressed with it.


On the day that my grandfather and I went to cut the roses, it seemed he had a plan in mind, but I didn't care. I was gleefully taking the ones he cut and wrapping them. Smelling each one. And listening to his mental notes. When we were done, we loaded the car up, and off we went to the cemetery.


This seemed like a big park to me. But I did have remembrance of the tears shed when both of them died, although I tried with all my might to forget that, and take a tumble on the grass. It was promptly brought to my attention that I should walk with respect here. And so I walked closely and carefully over the graves. My grandfather walked with determination out across a sea of grass, and stood at the head of his dear wife's grave. And he laid down a bouquet of all that we had cut. These were her flowers that she had tended so carefully. And then he walked over to my mother's grave.


There was a simple headstone. A veteran's headstone. Simply labeled with her name and birth and death dates. No fancy sayings, No embellishments. He took a deep breath, and pulled one of those single petal roses and laid it down. He never said a word, just sighed and walked away. I looked and turned to follow him. We left in silence.


Years later, after many trips to the cemetery, and many times of watching this demeanor of his, over and over, I would ask him about the entire thing. He only said that my mother had been a nurse in World War II. And not much else.


But he did say some other things. Perhaps knowing my mind, he wanted to plant deep in my thoughts something that would last forever.


How bright the flowers that lay here today!
Bluebells and Nosegay, Columbine and Tulips.
How bright the souls that passed this way!
Peonies for sweetness, And Roses for remembrance.


I learned years later that that simple rose was my mother's favorite one. She had lived a simple life, and was according to those I talked to her about, very simply sweet. She was proud to have served her country. She was honored to be allowed to. She died very young, and very painfully. She gave her life so I would have one.


I cannot go home this Memorial Day. Too many miles and too much duty. But in my mind I will place one simple, single rose on her grave.


Mother, a rose for remembrance.






© Copyright 2002 SLinnGomez. All rights reserved. SLinnGomez has granted Stories.Com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.