I planted a beautiful white rose and it had a spectacular season last year, blooming multiple times. The creamy blossoms started out pale yellow and by the time each one was fully open, it was white. The rose was a joy, but it did not survive the winter. I mulched it the same as the other rose bushes in that row. Its spot was even more protected than the others. Who knows what happened?
I write this because my mother is dying. It is not unexpected, after all, she is ninety-five years old, but it is still difficult. Waiting for something to happen that you do not want to happen is never easy. I don’t want her to suffer, either. Catch 22.
Like a rose, my mother was a true beauty, and like all roses, she had a few thorns. It is the same for all of us. She was the oldest of seven children, and the last surviving sibling. That is pretty remarkable in itself, a clue to her inner nature. She had rheumatic fever when she was fourteen, and in that day and age, they really didn’t know how to treat it. She battled it for seven years before truly regaining her strength.
I was able to hook up a personal hot-spot and face time my grandchildren, so my mom could see her great-grandchildren. You know, as much as we need to be diligent to protect our privacy and financial information, technology isn’t all bad. She was so tickled to see the “greats.” (They truly are great – but I might be a tad prejudiced.) I have no idea what that will add to my bill, but it was worth it.
One of my oldest friends lives close to my mother. Her colorful garden is an inspiration to me, and has been for decades. We talked through a couple of the problems I face in my new place. What a joy it is to share the art of gardening (and life) with a dear friend that I have shared so many triumphs and trials with. She is another of the beautiful roses in my garden.