In fashion then as of a snow-white rose
Displayed itself to me the saintly host,
Whom Christ in his own blood had made his bride,
But the other host, that flying sees and sings
The glory of Him who doth enamour it,
And the goodness that created it so noble,
Even as a swarm of bees, that sinks in flowers,
One moment, and the next returns again,
To where it labour is to sweetness turned
Sank into the great flower, that is adorned
With leaves so many, and thence reascended
to where its love abideth evermore.
The Divine Comedy, Paradiso: Canto XXXI Dante
The sky is robin's egg blue today. It won't stay long, as clouds cluster on the horizon and the promise of rain is in the forecast. But for now, the sun is shining and the leaves are vermilion, bursting forth and erasing the memory of winter. On these kinds of days, one can feel hopeful standing under a forever blue sky. But right now, the cool spring air is tinged with long ago memories, with sad thoughts, the scent of hyacinth is punctuated with the faded sent of roses from long ago.
Roses were her favorite scent, but she was not very good at growing them. We had spindly rose bushes in front of our house. They were planted by her mother, who loved to garden. But she was not a gardener. She loved gardens, and flowers, but did not like to fuss with them. So our planter box was used primarily as a cat box, and our front garden beds held those spindly roses but not much else.
But, in the back yard, behind the house, were the fruit trees. Pear trees, Macintosh apple trees, cherry trees, one planted at my birth, and one at my sisters, and a plum thicket created by one plum tree and many dropped plums. At the end of summer we always had a surplus of fruit. One year, she canned all the pears, and to be creative, dyed them pink and blue and green. Another year, it was my sister's and my job to sort the cherries,which were dumped into the bathtub, and look for worms. I hated this job and didn't look too closely, which resulted in canned cherries with a little extra protein. And then there were the plums or specifically, Italian prune plums. Thousands, given away in large paper grocery bags to anyone interested, canned into glass jars, and just eaten. I loved the plums the most.
Then, one year, the pear tree, overburdened with too much heavy fruit, lost a large branch. She thought it was a omen, that a member of the family was going to die. Her mother died that year. She was very conscious of omens, signs she felt were from God, preparing her for sad events. Her mother's clock, with the beautiful Westminster chimes, stopped at the exact hour shewould die, one week before. It still does not run.
Now, on this lovely spring day, a few days from Mothers Day, I wait. Her time is fading. The lilacs have not bloomed yet, and the roses are just budding. I know that this transition will hold many things; closure, sadness, regret, release and in some ways, peace. It will reunite her with my father, her mother and those whom left so long ago. It will complete her in her Lord, it will heal her and bless her. Roses, when they fade are said to first be full blown. In that state, the fragrance is the most intense. Her life was a full blown rose, full of beauty at its peak.
Displayed itself to me the saintly host,
Whom Christ in his own blood had made his bride,
But the other host, that flying sees and sings
The glory of Him who doth enamour it,
And the goodness that created it so noble,
Even as a swarm of bees, that sinks in flowers,
One moment, and the next returns again,
To where it labour is to sweetness turned
Sank into the great flower, that is adorned
With leaves so many, and thence reascended
to where its love abideth evermore.
The Divine Comedy, Paradiso: Canto XXXI Dante
The sky is robin's egg blue today. It won't stay long, as clouds cluster on the horizon and the promise of rain is in the forecast. But for now, the sun is shining and the leaves are vermilion, bursting forth and erasing the memory of winter. On these kinds of days, one can feel hopeful standing under a forever blue sky. But right now, the cool spring air is tinged with long ago memories, with sad thoughts, the scent of hyacinth is punctuated with the faded sent of roses from long ago.
Roses were her favorite scent, but she was not very good at growing them. We had spindly rose bushes in front of our house. They were planted by her mother, who loved to garden. But she was not a gardener. She loved gardens, and flowers, but did not like to fuss with them. So our planter box was used primarily as a cat box, and our front garden beds held those spindly roses but not much else.
But, in the back yard, behind the house, were the fruit trees. Pear trees, Macintosh apple trees, cherry trees, one planted at my birth, and one at my sisters, and a plum thicket created by one plum tree and many dropped plums. At the end of summer we always had a surplus of fruit. One year, she canned all the pears, and to be creative, dyed them pink and blue and green. Another year, it was my sister's and my job to sort the cherries,which were dumped into the bathtub, and look for worms. I hated this job and didn't look too closely, which resulted in canned cherries with a little extra protein. And then there were the plums or specifically, Italian prune plums. Thousands, given away in large paper grocery bags to anyone interested, canned into glass jars, and just eaten. I loved the plums the most.
Then, one year, the pear tree, overburdened with too much heavy fruit, lost a large branch. She thought it was a omen, that a member of the family was going to die. Her mother died that year. She was very conscious of omens, signs she felt were from God, preparing her for sad events. Her mother's clock, with the beautiful Westminster chimes, stopped at the exact hour shewould die, one week before. It still does not run.
Now, on this lovely spring day, a few days from Mothers Day, I wait. Her time is fading. The lilacs have not bloomed yet, and the roses are just budding. I know that this transition will hold many things; closure, sadness, regret, release and in some ways, peace. It will reunite her with my father, her mother and those whom left so long ago. It will complete her in her Lord, it will heal her and bless her. Roses, when they fade are said to first be full blown. In that state, the fragrance is the most intense. Her life was a full blown rose, full of beauty at its peak.
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