Roses for Mama

by Janette Oke

  Louise stopped and fidgeted some more.

  “Well, Mama laid a hand on my forehead and she said there was no fever—then she had me open wide my mouth and she looked at my throat. She said it was fine. She pressed on my tummy here and there and asked if it hurt and I said ‘No.’ Then she asked me if I had—had broken my leg and I said ‘No’ again, so she said I must really be quite fine then. Nothing seemed to be wrong—so she told me to get up. After breakfast when I was kissing Mama goodbye, she held me close and said, ‘Louise, don’t ever try to pretend you are something that you are not. Folks always see right through the sham. Be true to others—and to yourself.’”

  Louise paused for a moment and then admitted softly, “Sometimes it is still hard for me not to pretend—a little. But I—I am trying to learn.”

  You poor darling, thought Angela as her pen stopped writing for a minute while she considered the words. Perhaps you are growing up.

  Angela was the only one left. She looked around the table at her family members and cleared her throat.

  “I remember,” she began with trembling voice, “when I was about ten years old. Mama was sick in bed and I was sent to the field to take lunch to Papa. On the way home I found some early roses. They were the first ones I had seen that spring—just beginning to open—bright and pink and sweet-smelling. I knew how much Mama loved the spring roses so I stopped to pick some. Just a little handful. That’s all there were. I remember how I got some thorns in my fingers. I even got a drop of blood on my pinafore where I wiped my hand.

  “Then I started on home, thinking how happy Mama would be when I arrived with the flowers. I had to cross the creek and it was higher than usual. Papa had thrown a log across it, but I wasn’t very good at walking the log. I was about halfway across when I started to lose my balance. I grabbed frantically for an overhanging limb and managed to keep myself from falling in. But in clutching at the tree branch—I dropped the roses. I stood there crying as I watched the stream carry them off. When I got home I was still crying.

  “I went into Mama’s bedroom and threw myself against her bed and told her what had just happened.

  “She put her arms around me and pulled me close. ‘Angela,’ she told me, ‘you are my flowers. My roses. You and your brothers and sisters. You make up my bouquet. And a more lovely bouquet never graced the home of any woman. I will always—always—see you as such—my beautiful, beautiful roses. I don’t need any others.’”

  Angela stopped to wipe her eyes. They would be red and swollen for her wedding if she wasn’t careful. At least Thane would understand.

  She lifted her head and looked around the table. “And that is how I see you, too,” she told them softly. “As Mama’s roses. She would be so—so proud of you—if she could see you now. Just as Thomas and I are.”

  They leaned forward for an impromptu family embrace and then wiped away tears, smiled at each one, and rose from the table.

  “I don’t want to keep Thane waiting,” spoke Angela softly as she replaced the Memory Book in the bureau drawer. She turned to her brother. “I’m afraid you’ll need to push the team a bit, Thomas.”

  “Thane will wait,” Thomas said with confidence, “but we’ll see that you’re there on time.”

  He stopped long enough to pull her into his arms and give her a brotherly embrace.

  “You’re going to make him a beautiful bride—and a wonderful wife—Mama’s rose,” he said softly. Then he released her slowly, turned, and was gone to fetch the team.