Death of my yellow rose
Dear Mom, I am sorry I never really did believe in heaven. We quarrelled when I didn't want to go to church, but then I went through a religious period and it was ok. When I came to London for grad school, I told you I was thrilled to be in a country where I could note 'agnostic' on my health file. You scoffed under your breath.
Now I do understand what all the talk of heaven was about, because in a time like this one wants to believe their loved one is still 'looking after them'. But I believe that you left at a time when you felt David and I, the brother five years and five months younger than I, were finally able to soar on our own. The song 'Summertime' came to mind, and it is fitting you passed in summer. I was a little girl and you'd sing that song in Anaheim or Fullerton. I used to imagine that the living WAS easy, and I knew my mama was good looking. I figured with Dad's gold Cadillac, maybe my daddy WAS rich. I knew that I was rich in love, though, with our young family in Southern California.
When David told me last night that Mom had passed, I already knew. I had seen a message from your area code, Mom, and knew it could only be bad news. I hadn't fully understood, I guess, what was happening with your heart, what the procedure was. What a dolt - here I was focused on King George III's scientific instruments (for my dissertation) but couldn't take a few minutes to better understand what was happening to you. 'I don't want you to worry,' you said, 'but there is a 50 percent chance of a blockage.' I immediately thought of my beloved doctor, Steve Tamarin, who died of this. Somehow I regrouped. You insisted I should not worry, and I would call you about 8 my time. I told you I loved you, I am sure, and you told me, I am sure. But I remember your last words to me were, ' Awww, that makes me happy' when I told you I was getting some help with my finances. I did not want you to worry as I completed my dissertation.
Mom, remember our lovely call on my birthday Sunday when I called from Stockholm. Oddly, I called you and woke you up, not realizing the time difference, perhaps, but it seemed more than that. Some kind of urgency. I called again, and you said not to worry about waking you up! It was my birthday after all! You wanted to know about Stockholm, and you said, 'Look at the flowers while you are there. I remember in Europe how vivid the flowers were, so bright.' Mom, I might be paraphrasing. But I did look at the flowers and wandered into unexpected gardens and then took these Instagram shots: here and here. There were many others. And today, Mom, I picked a rose, a red rose, from the garden. We used to love smelling the red roses you'd pick from your rose bush in Alice, didn't we? We also loved those Anthony Bourdain recipes I cooked up. I also made spaghetti and meatballs, Rachel Ray-style. 'These are the BEST meatballs I've ever had!' you said.
The other day I'd told you about a call with Uncle John for my dissertation. He had been a top nuclear physicist, but had time and interest to discuss a surveying tool for my thesis. I told you he wanted me to be clear that he was not a surveyor. I told you how he seemed to know this other subject so naturally, but didn't think it was special. You said, 'That's because he's lived with his brain all these years.'
Mom, I am sorry for every cross word ever uttered from my mouth. You were the most unique, selfless, creative, loving mother anyone could have ever asked for. My life, hence forward, is to be lived as I know you would have wished. May you paint the images of your dreams - a word you insisted I use, and which we fought over recently. You told me, 'I like the word 'dream.' Mama had said, 'keep on dreaming.'
When David told me last night that Mom had passed, I already knew. I had seen a message from your area code, Mom, and knew it could only be bad news. I hadn't fully understood, I guess, what was happening with your heart, what the procedure was. What a dolt - here I was focused on King George III's scientific instruments (for my dissertation) but couldn't take a few minutes to better understand what was happening to you. 'I don't want you to worry,' you said, 'but there is a 50 percent chance of a blockage.' I immediately thought of my beloved doctor, Steve Tamarin, who died of this. Somehow I regrouped. You insisted I should not worry, and I would call you about 8 my time. I told you I loved you, I am sure, and you told me, I am sure. But I remember your last words to me were, ' Awww, that makes me happy' when I told you I was getting some help with my finances. I did not want you to worry as I completed my dissertation.
Mom, remember our lovely call on my birthday Sunday when I called from Stockholm. Oddly, I called you and woke you up, not realizing the time difference, perhaps, but it seemed more than that. Some kind of urgency. I called again, and you said not to worry about waking you up! It was my birthday after all! You wanted to know about Stockholm, and you said, 'Look at the flowers while you are there. I remember in Europe how vivid the flowers were, so bright.' Mom, I might be paraphrasing. But I did look at the flowers and wandered into unexpected gardens and then took these Instagram shots: here and here. There were many others. And today, Mom, I picked a rose, a red rose, from the garden. We used to love smelling the red roses you'd pick from your rose bush in Alice, didn't we? We also loved those Anthony Bourdain recipes I cooked up. I also made spaghetti and meatballs, Rachel Ray-style. 'These are the BEST meatballs I've ever had!' you said.
The other day I'd told you about a call with Uncle John for my dissertation. He had been a top nuclear physicist, but had time and interest to discuss a surveying tool for my thesis. I told you he wanted me to be clear that he was not a surveyor. I told you how he seemed to know this other subject so naturally, but didn't think it was special. You said, 'That's because he's lived with his brain all these years.'
Mom, I am sorry for every cross word ever uttered from my mouth. You were the most unique, selfless, creative, loving mother anyone could have ever asked for. My life, hence forward, is to be lived as I know you would have wished. May you paint the images of your dreams - a word you insisted I use, and which we fought over recently. You told me, 'I like the word 'dream.' Mama had said, 'keep on dreaming.'
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