Rose brings memories of mother

You could smell the robust fragrance of the flower before you saw it, one of those old-fashioned, red roses that can saturate the air with its scent.

My friend Kim, saying that the bush in her yard was heavily laden with the red jewels, picked this one to enjoy on her desk at work. She showed it to me as she passed through, and I took a deep breath of the perfume that no man can replicate.

I went by Kim's desk several times after that. Finally, shortly before leaving for the day, I picked up the flower and drank in its scent one last time. Kim said, "Take it home with you," so I did, putting it in a bud vase and setting it in my kitchen windowsill.

Every time I went into the kitchen, I could smell the flower -- a much nicer fragrance than the "wet dog" smell from three pooches that had been outside in the rain. As I washed dishes, I looked up and saw the vibrant red petals, then closed my eyes and saw her -- my mother.

When I was child growing up in a "holler" in the Forest Hill community of rural Blount County, one of my favorite pastimes was flitting from one flowering bush or tree or clump to the other in spring and summer, a happy little bee delighting in those wonderful sights and smells. The rose bushes in our yard -- planted in many cases by my grandmother, who had dwelt in the house prior to the building of a newer home on the hill across the driveway -- were some of my favorites. They were the old-fashioned roses, blushing pinks and reds and whites, their fragrance as deep and strong as that of the rose Kim had given me.

I remember picking bouquets for Mama and for Mamaw Braden, willing to brave the thorns so they could have the roses to enjoy. Bloody fingers were a small price to pay to show these wonderful women how much I loved them.

On Mother's Day, Mama would send me to the yard to pick a rose for each of us to wear to church. Pink or red for me, since my mother was still living; white for her, because her mother had passed away before I was born. I always felt badly for the people wearing the white roses. Being a child, it didn't dawn on me that I would be a member of that club one day, myself. Jan. 20, 1994, was my initiation day.

I am a mother now, and a grandmother. I have grieved over the death of my mother; I have grieved over the loss of a child, miscarried on May 17, 1988. Mother's Day, like life itself, is a contradiction of pain at the losses, joy in the memories of those not present, joy in the blessings of children and grandchildren.

I gain hope by seeing the red rose and letting its scent carry me to the past, and to the future. For one day, I, like my mother and my child, will be going to a city where the streets with gold are laid. Where the Tree of Life is blooming, and the roses never fade.

Linda Albert is Women's Times editor and a staff writer for The Daily Times. Her column runs every Sunday in the Women's Times section. You may contact her at 981-1168 or e-mail linda.albert@thedailytimes.com.