Mom had 95 birthdays on this earth, but it was still hard to say good-bye just a few weeks before her ninety-sixth in May. The employees at the restaurant I owned saw just how hard, because when I came back to work they had a present waiting.
“It’s a hybrid tea rose,” one of the waitresses said, handing me a plant. The yellow petals were so fresh and vibrant, just the way I liked to remember Mom. “Plant it in your garden at home,” she said, “and every time it blooms it will remind you of your mother.”
I did just that. The bush was in full bloom when I planted it and remained so until the fall. Come spring, I pruned it, saying a prayer for future blooms.
But the first day of May arrived, and no flowers. The month neared an end with still no buds.
On May 29 I went out into the yard to see a rose blooming big as life. May 29, Mom’s birthday. And for almost every one of the 14 years since, Mom’s rose plant has bloomed on her birthday. Proof that Mom celebrates with the angels every year.
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