By the chain link fence of our backyard, a rosebush grows.
It’s really growing in our neighbors’ backyard, but, according to my mother, there’s an agreement that the roses hanging over into our yard are ours, and the roses on the neighbors’ side are theirs.
So, early one Sunday morning, my mother ushers my sister and me out to the fence. In one hand my mother holds pair of shears. In her other hand is a cigarette. Salem. Menthol Fresh.
“Pick out the rose you want to wear,” she says. “From the ones on our side.”
The roses are vivid red with a hot pink tint. Some are wilting. Some are big and full. Velvety. Their fragrance is heavy in the air.
“This one!” says my sister, pointing to a large bloom.
“That one might fall apart while you’re wearing it. Find one that’s not all the way open yet.”
—Why did she tell us to choose?
We finally select tight rosebuds that my mother thinks are acceptable. She puts her cigarette in her mouth and clips the two buds. Then she clips a third one that’s partially open.
“Why are you cutting three roses?” I want to know.
My mother blows a cloud of smoke into the air. Menthol and tobacco mingle with the scent of roses. “One’s for me. Grannie is living, so I’ll wear a red rose to church for Mother’s Day, too.”
She has three straight pins in her sleeve. She removes one to pin my sister’s rose to the front of her dress.
I am thinking about Grannie. Her mother is not living. “What color rose will Grannie wear, then?”
“White,” says my mother, pinning my red rosebud to my dress.
I am sorry for Grannie, her mother being dead, having to wear a white rose. One day my mother will wear a white rose on Mother’s Day. The thought floods me with sadness. The colors make me wonder—why? Why red for living mothers and why white for dead mothers?
“Is red for the blood?” I ask.
My mother, in the midst of pinning her own rose, leans in. She can’t hear well. Sometimes she doesn’t catch everything other people are saying. “What?”
“Do people wear red for living mothers because they still have blood in them and white for dead mothers because when they die there’s no more blood?”
My mother frowns. An upside-down V appears between her eyebrows as she looks at me. I can tell she heard me and that she doesn’t understand the question. Before I can try again, she says, “All right, we’re ready. The bus should be here any minute. Let’s go wait out front.”
We ride the bus to church because my mother doesn’t drive. She never learned how. And Daddy is asleep because he’ll be getting up to go to work while we’re at church.
We stand out front, my mother, my sister, and me, wearing matching dresses that my mother made, with our three red roses pinned on, waiting for the church bus. It’s really an old school bus, now painted navy blue and white. My mother lights another cigarette. My sister plays with her necklace—a tan-and-white rabbit’s foot on a piece of yellow yarn around her neck—and I think about colors. Red and white. Living and dead. Blood and no blood.
Good thing we have our own red rosebush for Mother’s Day, or what would we do?
It would be many years before I wondered what color rose a person might wear for a mother in an altered state. As in the case of, say, addiction. As in, if the relationship had disintegrated because of it, because the mother is consumed. Because it happens, somewhere, to somebody, every day. What is the color of dysfunction? Of existing, but not really living? Surely not a blend of red and white, for pink is too cheery. Gray? Does a gray rose even exist in nature? If it did, why would anyone wear it as homage to a mother?
One would just not wear any rose at all, rather than wearing one the color of ghosts, of shadows, of clouded memories, of the mists of time, even if the sun occasionally breaks through to shine on what was good, as on a rosebush blooming along a chain link fence and a bud like a drop of blood on a little girl’s dress, even as swirling smoke envelops it, before the ashes fall.
lit bits and pieces 
Such a poignant and thought provoking post this morning. I can smell the roses and feel the sadness .
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So beautiful, Fran. I saw and felt the moments, the wondering of the child and the pondering of the woman. It’s intersting to have an imperfect mother memory when those we hear seem so perfect.
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The imperfect part is definitely one of my reasons for writing this. I think it is probably much more relatable than the “perfect mother memory” to which you alluded so well. Thank you 🙂
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There is a lot to unpack here, but this question has surfaced for me, and I don’t have an answer.
“What is the color of dysfunction?”
Kevin
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“What is the color of dysfunction?” is my favorite line in this post. I may expand on it at some point later. It’s still bubbling…
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I liked that agreement. There are so many questions in life for which we can give no definite answer. Thank you for sharing.
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Yes. You are profoundly right: there are so many questions in life for which we can give no definite answer. Thank you for reading. 🙂
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Fran, you have pulled us into this story like a path leading into a forest, until we are surrounded by the trees of your details and can’t help but ponder with you.
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What a lovely analogy for this post, Chris – the path into a forest & “trees of my details” – yes, alluding to a murkiness that hasn’t been fully explained in the post, but just hinted at. Thank you – and how perceptive you are!
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So well done, Fran! I’m pondering so many thoughts about living and life and the crafting from the simple first sentence that begins with a prep phrase to the final very long sentence that answers your rhetorical question and ends with “ashes fall.” Like Kevin, I ask, what is the color of dysfunction? I think of the spider I tried to capture a photo of with my iPhone yesterday. It was a daddy longlegs that looked translucent in the bright sunlight. I couldn’t get a clear picture because it had no “color” which made its outline a “blur”…perhaps an image of dysfunction.
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Thank you for your deeply intuitive response, Alice – the “color of dysfunction” line is my favorite in this post, and what a good analogy to your translucent spider. When we live with dysfunction we cannot see it for what it is. From a distance – in this case, time – it’s clearer, but still challenging to capture. “Blur” is a great word. The lines between healthy/not healthy, positive/negative…they are all present and blurred in us, just more obvious in some than others. Thank you. 🙂
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This is a stunningly beautiful and poignant memoir. The inquisitive, tender little soul that you were/are comes through loud and clear. I am sure there are many women with imperfect mothers who would love to read this piece. Have you thought of publishing it? It’s a gem.
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Thank you for these words. I was thinking I should write this memory – and there are more – for just that reason, that others, especially around Mother’s Day, might feel encouraged in some way, somehow. Hadn’t thought of publishing. Must ponder that deeply…
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This is really, really beautiful. You should submit it to be published! I felt like I was reading a piece in a magazine or anthology of some sort. Your words crafted a vivid image and I couldn’t keep the questions from flooding my mind as I read. It stays with you, even after you are done reading it.
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Thank you so much for your reply – I am glad to know questions flooded your mind as you read and that it stays with you – that is so good to know. There’s so much more, really, to tell … you are the second person to mention publishing this piece and I am amazed. THANK YOU for the encouragement:)
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You bring me right along with you, right there as your choices are limited by your mother even when she tells you that the choice is yours, when your questions go unanswered, when you wait for church. What color is dysfunction, indeed? What color is heartbreak? Thank you for sharing this.
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Ah, what color is heartbreak – and it is only alluded to in this little post. Amazing perception, Amanda. Thank you for reading & letting me know it pulled you along.
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