The Art of Remembering: My Mother

The Recuerda Mi Corazon blog is hosting an October meme called The Art of Remembering.  You can read more about it here and this week's memories are at this link.  In Rebecca's words, the purpose of this Sunday exercise is to "share our most personal memories of loved ones and their forever places in our hearts.  As we take time to do the sacred work of remembering we are filled with the presence of all those now gone that once filled our days with love and comfort."  You can read my previous entry by clicking here.
*******************************************************************************************

My Mother's Roses

There are so many things I could share about my mother, but today I want to remember one of the smallest details about her life. . . . 

She loved roses. And she had the greenest thumb for them.  I never counted the number of rose bushes she had, but they were scattered all about our yard . . . along the walkway to our front door, in the flower bed outside the living room plate glass window, in the back yard along the side of the house and even one tucked into the small patch of dirt by the side gate. She knew exactly the right amount of watering and pruning they needed, as well as how much and when to feed them. Her rose bushes came in so many different colors and varieties.  And they all thrived under her care.  They had the sweetest perfume. It filled the air when she cut roses and placed them in vases throughout the house. 

Because my mother believed in sharing her roses . . . with her family and with her friends.  She made countless bouquets for me to give friends, neighbors, teachers and anyone else who she wanted to make feel special. She carefully selected a variety of stems to cut . . . some in full bloom; some buds just beginning to open. She wrapped the stems in wet paper towels and then in foil so they would last on their journey to the lucky recipient.  Sometimes she trimmed the thorns, but most of the time, I had to be careful because the most beautiful roses seemed to be surrounded by the sharpest of thorns.

I think of my mom every time I see roses. I remember their smell. And their beauty. And the care she gave her roses. And how she shared them.