Pink Rose, What it Means to Me

​This pink rose is a symbol to me of a mother, a mother who gave me life. A mother who once lived and thrived and was as gorgeous as this rose. A mother whose favorite flower was the rose. 

She was happily married and had two young children,  myself being the youngest at just six months of age or so when she got the news, breast cancer.  

Christmas 1963, my mother’s last Christmas with us. I’m on her lap. She died 10 months later.

The first doctor that she saw didn’t take things seriously and by the time my grandfather took her to a different doctor, it was too late. She had surgery and radiation.  She had radiation burns. Mom left us no letters to read when we grew up, no earth shattering revolations like you see in the movies.

My mother didn’t make it and like the rose, she began to whilt and fade until one day she was gone. She had her time to be bright, brilliant and beautiful and then she faded, not to be enjoyed by anyone again.  No more laughter, no more tears, no more hugs and kisses, only a cemetery and a stone are left.
She’s a memory,  not my memory,  I was too young, age 2 when she faded. She died at the end of September and was buried October 1st, her ninth wedding anniversary. 

I’m glad October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month as it makes me feel like everyone,  somehow knows about and is celebrating the life of my mother.

In memory of my mother, Jane Louise, the most beautiful woman I wish I knew.

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