I strolled through my garden just a couple of days ago and stumbled upon a seemingly lifeless rose bush near Orris Hill. Orris Hill, as we fondly call it, is the colossal compost mound my husband assembled in the backyard 18 months ago. It serves as a final sanctuary for plants on the verge of fading away, a place where they either revive or bid farewell. So far, it has witnessed the flourishing of a Norfolk Island pine, two hibiscus bushes, three banana trees, an abundance of mint, a lemon lollipop bush, a solitary purple crepe myrtle, as well as thriving squashes and watermelons.
Returning to the rosebush, I was surprised to find a solitary deep red rose gracing its delicate stem. I delicately plucked it and, as its fragrance enveloped me, a wave of long-buried emotions surged from the depths of my soul. Mother’s roses … the aroma transported me back to the red roses that once adorned the rose garden outside my mother’s bedroom at our family home.
My mother, a devoted lover of roses, especially the fragrant red ones, nurtured her floral companions with care, using manure and teas, and attending to them with unwavering dedication. In that little 20′ x 15′ plot, a tapestry of pine and red roses unfolded. It was 1955, and in my mind’s eye, I could see her kneeling amidst her “babies,” tenderly pruning and gathering roses for the vase in our vestibule—a term she insisted upon for our front entry.
The tears welled up as I stood in my sun-drenched Kissimmee, Florida, garden, mourning a woman who departed a quarter of a century ago—my mother, the rose enthusiast, the one who imparted to me an early love for gardening.
On Mother’s Day, she would pin a red rose to my dress, a tradition that signaled a living mother. A white rose denoted a departed one. Until the age of eight, we both wore red roses, but the tradition lost its luster when she started pinning a white rose on her dress before church. In keeping with the custom, I should have worn a white rose for the past 25 years. Yet, I persist in donning a red one, honoring my mother’s love for red roses and, in turn, my love for her.
In my garden, where herbs, peppers, squash, and scented pelargoniums thrive, it is the roses that I cultivate for the sake of memories—memories of Mother. ❖
About the Author: Beverly A. Heart Orris works with abused women and says digging in the dirt helps people heal.
