My oldest sister wrote this piece as a tribute to our mother who we are slowly losing to Alzheimer’s Disease. I felt it should be published but Sis was too modest to allow her name to be attached to this touching prose poem:
I have a rose garden.
Living with an Artist translates to being first in line for a number of things. From roses to having your attention drawn to the natural world that you dwell in and share.
They often have discovered what others overlook, and from a lifetime of unveiling, they will give you the transmission, gladly.
An Artist knows how to plant and grow.
When you are a city girl like me, you hadn’t a clue, until someone opted to show you how. How to amend the soil, and where to clip, and all the sweet tender care, you can give to it.
It all started out, in courting, and how do you court the woman you have set your sights on.
No store bought roses, or celebrations of your special days. No poems or promises of better days. No compliments are sent your way. These anchors that have never been set, can leave you adrift. Adrift in your sea of uncertainty.
Yet, my dear, here is how you plant a rose garden. You wonder, everyone loves roses, what do they mean to me.
What is more intimate than a Mother and a teenager daughter. When I was 13, my Mummy sat me beside her after making all the beds. As I followed her from room to room. Afraid to pee, lest she take leave of me.
Besotted, as only a young girl is, to be with her Mother split four ways.
A woman is like a rose. When she is a little girl she is a bud. A bud that gradually opens into womanhood. And when she becomes a woman she is a flower in full bloom. Fragrant, supple, and she has blossomed. Then later, she wilts a little, not so strong, not so pretty, yet she unfolds.
Graceful still, for every care she has given, every sacrifice she has made, if you really want to know, her glory is a hundred fold.
I am embellishing here, her words have disappeared, her meaning is still with me, transmitted to the bud.
Now, what is the Artist’s play?
My dear, I am only here. I cannot replace or quell any of your sadness. I can only help you to plant your rose garden, where your dear Mother dwells, and all your loves you tend to there.
I see your happiness as you water your garden. My Love.
Photo by George Burden – All Rights Reserved