White roses

I love some of the old traditions. When I was a kid, women and girls alike wore corsages on Mother's Day, a red rose if your mother was still living, a white rose if she had died. Now corsages are just for proms, and some girls are reconsidering them then. Part of me though is looking for my rose. It would look odd with my polo shirt and capris, but I feel like I ought to be wearing one. What doesn't feel right is that it should be a white rose. It's been four years since she died. If we spent 24 hours together without fighting over something, it was a miracle. She's still my role model for charm, for grace, for straight talk, for being able to laugh at oneself, for persistence and for indefatigability. Ever practical, my mother pre-arranged her own funeral. Her coffin was draped with her favorite pink roses. It was fitting. I am somewhere between the red and the white, still making peace with what I'll always have of her and grateful for that legacy. I miss her so much today it hurts.

Mother's Day, white roses