I was sitting at my piano the other evening when I suddenly was overcome with the desire to see my mother. Not as she is now, but as she was when I was a young child. I remember her hair, black shining Aztec glory cascading down her back. A beauty that radiated in both her smile and furrowed brow. I wondered how anyone so beautiful would ever have a reason to be despondent. Yet my mother held sorrow like an uprooted rose bush. Its intended purpose was for pleasure and adornment. Yet the longer flowers are held in a clenched fist, the more parched they become.
My mother was a gifted scholar and performer. In Mexico she was known for her poetry and songs. She was also known
for her physical beauty. He mother would sew her the latest fashion. She was awarded a scholarship to study abroad. That is when the beautiful rose was uprooted. She dreamt of adventure and of being a missionary one day. She would find adventure and a life of missions. Yet it would be costly.
She found herself in Grand Rapids Michigan, where tulips, not roses, are highly regarded. She quickly assimilated not realizing that the uprooting had already begun. She soon met my father, and they began a life long romance. I was born and we spent the first two years of my life in Sierra Leone, West Africa. Her sole purpose was keeping me alive. She would carry: bananas, rice, and monkey bones to feed me.
We moved back to Michigan where my brother was born. Soon after my mother was pregnant for a third time. She miscarried. I physically watched my mamma-rose shrivel up and hope to die. She curled up on the couch and cried for days. I remember smelling roses and seeing a vision of Jesus holding my baby brother. In a three year old way I remember telling her it would be ok.
My momma rose did not die. Yet the color of her rose did dim. For years I watched my mother sacrifice herself for her family and friends. I watched her brilliance fade. Her energy began to deplete sooner and sooner during the course of a day. There where days when she would lie in bed, using all her energy to survive.
I felt helpless. A rose bush must be handled with care. There are thorns. Some are called disappointment. Others are despair. While yet other thorns are called depression. I was spinning. I was always doing more and more. Yet not enough. Not the right things. Never the right way. Could doing the dishes keep a family together? Could occupying siblings bring wholeness and stability? I began to fear silence. The silence of a throat that has no voice left. The silence of tears already shed. The silence of a grieving heart.
I remember my mother, during this time, and looked at her as a fragile rose bud. I loved her. I resented her. I loved her for the light she had given me. I resented her for having the ability to hide from the darkness that was beginning to overtake me.
My mami loved our rosebushes outside of our Dutch colonial home. The previous owner had planted them all along the edge of our home and driveway. It was one of the only times I could guarantee seeing my mother smile. It did not matter how often we made bouquets for her, she would always be filled with joy by the roses. A friend gave her a bottle of rose perfume, and she wore it till the last drop.
It is the smell of that rose perfume that had evoked these memories at my piano that night. I did not realize I had a rose candle near me with the cover off. I smelled the artificial rose scent and began thinking of both organic and superficial memories of my mother. Is our memory ever truly reliable?
I have often wondered if the memory of a particular aroma smells the same when you remember it? What I do know is that smells can have a profound effect on us. “Smells are handled by the olfactory bulb, the structure in the front of the brain that sends information to the other areas of the body’s central command for further processing. Odors take a direct route to the limbic system, including the amygdala and the hippocampus, the regions related to emotion and memory.” (Walsh, 2020).
Its no wonder the smell of a rose had elicited so much emotion in me. And I then began to connect the dots of how many times my mother had given me a rose, whether realistically or metaphorically. The days when we would walk long country roads to visit cows with our picnic basket full of: eggs, salsa, and tortilla chips. The moments of hot chocolate after hours of playing outside in the frigid Midwest winters. Early mornings spent memorizing bible verses while dipping saltine crackers in coffee ( mostly milk). Those were roses that my mother selflessly plucked from amongst the thorns of her mind and emotions.
After I moved out of my home, I began to see my mother in a new light. I saw her depression not as cowardly but as bravery. She had decided every day to fight to live and smell the roses. Some days all she received for her efforts were thorns. Yet after receiving medical help and the prayers of many friends and family, I watched her efforts result in more roses. There were still as many thorns, both of past and present. Yet she began to emanate the smell of roses, of alife full of love and freedom.
Today my mother is such an example to me as she continues to find ways to stay balanced and face whatever comes her way, She has chosen to take the uprooted parts of herself and replant them in: hope, trust, and faith. This has led her to become a safe place for many people that face what was once overcoming her and she can now say she has overcome it. I will never smell a rose without thinking of my mother.
Walsh, C. (2020, February 27). How scent, emotion, and memory are intertwined - and exploited. Harvard Gazette.https://news.harvard.edu/gazette/story/2020/02/how-scent-emotion-and-memory-are-intertwined-and-exploited/.