*Please bear with me during the next couple of days as I dedicate a few older posts to the memory of my mother. She passed away four years ago on November 20, 2010. Originally posted 11/8/2013
There they were. Three yellow roses blooming high atop the bush of frosted leaves. The morning sunlight had just come over the horizon to frame its own picture of them before I grabbed my camera phone to do the same.
They are “My Mother’s Yellow Roses,” of course. All her life, the yellow rose was her favorite flower. Five years ago when I moved into this house I planted the yellow rose-bush as a way to keep her close to me. We lived far from each other, able to visit only once or twice a year. Yet, whenever I sat on my patio, her spirit seemed to surround me. The scent of the yellow roses, their edges dipped in painted pink, brought us together.
My glance at the lemon colored rose petals always remind me of my mother. Particularly this morning. Perhaps it is the contrast of the glistening, white frost blanketing the hill in the background. How it sparkles in the sun like fairy dust, covering the grasses and all of the blades of green around it. The flowers I so prized in rainbow colors decorating my patio have withered. They hang, crumpled over rainbow pots. Their lives have ended for the year, a sign of cooling weather. Changing seasons are upon us with winter coming soon.
My mother is on my mind this month. She passed away three years ago in November of 2010. I was packing to board a flight to see her in Arizona. Packing three years ago on this very day. It was not her time yet, but I knew….she would be lost to me, soon. She lived with several chronic conditions. The worst of which was, COPD. Eventually, it led to lung cancer, choking the life from her.
The yellow roses I planted to keep me close to my mother are hanging on as if to send me a message this morning. In spite of the frost that snuffed the life from the flowers around them, they are still here to say, “Hello.” They have not withered or left their source of life. They send me love from my mother above, and me right back to her. I predict they may prevail for a few days more, or even longer. Like life in general, no one but God knows for sure. Until that day comes, I glance out the window at every opportunity to see my mother’s yellow roses. There, I whisper a silent message full of love to her above.
“I miss you, Mom.”