american beauty

for mother's day in 2005, i had two dozen roses sent to my mom. she called to say thank you and said she had never had flowers delivered to her before. i could tell that she could not convey exactly how she felt, but knew that it was very meaningful to her. she even got dressed up and had my dad take pictures of her with them. for the next few days, she called to tell me about how different the house looked with them in it, how fragrant they smelled, how pretty their color. my dad told me that as the petals began to wilt and fall, she diligently collected them and when they died altogether, she spent time pulling off not just every petal, but every leaf too. she stored them in the vase that the flowers came in and sat them an arms length from her on the kitchen table, next to her glasses, where she read her bible every morning. the roses were the last gift she received, the last photos taken of her. she died a week and a half later.

i always thought that given time and proximity, i could understand how much someone loved me, but i realize that the only barometer i have is my own; i only know the scope of someone's love for me based on my own perspective, my self-created, self-centered construct. i have a tendency to extend my love toward fullness and beauty and momentum, and to want to pull my love away at any sign of weakness or trouble or suffering. i imagine that had she sent me flowers, i would have loved and appreciated them too, but would have easily thrown them out when their beauty started to wane. the symbolism is apparent but hard for me to articulate. maybe another time.

she made sure that her family and her garden bore the health and the fruit her body could not produce. i have never again experienced such purity of will, of magnanimity, of servitude. i can't imagine how much my mom loved me, it hurts me to the bone that i can't grasp it. by nature or by circumstance, she came to live the reality that love is stronger than death, love is the beginning and the end, love's only desire is to fulfill itself. maybe that's how she made peace with being chronically ill.

i'm thankful for having experienced that transcendence, even though it makes me sad sometimes. if only i knew that it was her last mother's day...

"i sleep, but my heart is awake."

happy mother's day, mommy, i sure do love you.