Roses for Mama                                                         

                                                        by  Sharon E. Barber  © 1991                                   

              It was a crisp, "blue-sky and sunshine" day.

Warm for the month of May, but hinting strongly

of summer's promise. It flowed gently, like the

breeze that ruffled your hair. You meander, enjoying

the brightness and the warm of the sun' and as

you walk along the old, worn path to Mama's, you

reflect on things past. You're grown now and

can look back.    

 

   

 

"She was always fussing at me...sit up straight...

make sure your face is clean and don't forget

to wash behind your ears...sit still and don't

fidget...don't be going outside and disappearing,

supper's almost ready..."    

 

           

                            

The words echo in your mind and in your heart.

Mama always fussed, but then, Mama always

cared because she always loved.      

 

                                                   

She always tried to show you. She always baked

the best cookies and cakes and after school there

was always a large slice of something and a glass

of milk. "Just to tide you over until we eat,"

she'd say, glad that you were home and that

the house wasn't so empty anymore.     

 

  

                                  

And how she always hated the rips and tears and

half-hanging buttons that had to be mended.

"Come here," she'd say, playfully grabbing     

your arm as you tried to fly by her without her seeing,

and already reaching for the needle and thread.

 

                                        

She had the eye of an eagle. Nothing escaped her

vision. Not a smile, not a tear. Like the time you

broke her favorite vase and were so afraid that you

hid under your bed and she'd come looking for you.

You were certain that it was the end of your short

little life and had sobbed out what you'd done, and

she'd just held you close in her arms and whispered

in your hair, "just as long as it's not you           

that's broken."         

 

  

                  

She was always there. For the good times and 

the bad, the heartaches and the joys, for the

excellent and ordinary days of your life. Always.

Helping, holding, laughing with you, crying with

you, tucking you in and kissing you goodnight

until you thought you'd gotten too big.     

Always making sure that you knew that she cared,

that you knew that she loved you.    

 

            

                                      

You'd ask her that once. "I loved you from the

moment I first saw you," she said, a twinkle in

her bright and beautiful eyes. "You were the

ugliest little child..." and she'd laughed,     

knowing that you knew she didn't mean it.    

At least not the ugly part. You always knew

that she loved you.   

 

                      

                                           

Like when you went away for the first time and

had called home because you were so homesick.

She'd said, "It'll be all right. You'll be fine. You only

have to call. We'll be right here for you." And they

always were. And you said, "I'll work hard and

make you proud of me." And she said,      

"I already am."                             

And she was. Always. She believed in you     

even when you didn't.           

 

            

                                     

You can picture her now, standing on the porch

step, hands caught up in her apron to hide the flour

from the fresh biscuits, yelling for your Dad and

you to "come inside before everything's cold."

Her voice trying to sound so harsh, while her heart

was happy and glad for the moment in time when

     she stood and watched you silently before she

called out.

 

                           

 

All through the years you'd always meant to

somehow find a way to tell her, to show her,

how very much she meant to you.            

Now as you walk along, reflecting on the years

gone by, you finger the red roses in your       

arms, knowing they will be her very first. 

 

                              

Stopping, you place them on the ground      

before the cold granite stone and whisper,    

"Hi, Mama. Happy Mother's Day.           

I am late, as usual."                      

 

                                     

And you can almost hear her say,        

"I love you anyway."  

 

This article, written by Sharon E. Barber, originally appeared               

in the Olean Times Herald, May 12, 1991, Olean, NY and was              

entitled, "The Mother's Day Visit".  © 1991.        

 

 

                       

                                                                                                                                                                                  

   Special thanks to Sharon E. Barber for giving us permission to use "Roses for Mama".