Among the many decisions Marilyn Arrington will make as she readies for church this Mother’s Day morning — which lipstick to apply, which hat will look best — one will be more freighted than the rest.
Which flower, red or white?
If she follows tradition, Arrington will pin a white blossom to the bodice of her dress, the fragile petals conveying a heavy truth shared by many today: My mother is gone. But the memories are here.
It is a Mother’s Day custom born a century ago that for many people, endures. Those whose mothers are dead commemorate by wearing white flowers; those whose mothers are alive celebrate with buds of red.
They passed out white carnations 102 years ago at this country’s first official Mother’s Day observance, in a little church in the West Virginia hamlet of Grafton, home of the holiday’s founder. Humble and sturdy, back then the white bloom honored mothers both living and dead. It’s said that florists later introduced red flowers as a symbol for the living. No matter.
For nearly seven decades, Arrington has known the joy of wearing a vibrant red rose or carnation in honor of her mom, Myrtle Jones.
Things are different this year. Five months ago, Jones died after 96 years on this earth.
So today, as Arrington once again completes the flower ritual, for the first time she will have to wear the other color.
At least she is supposed to.
A room full of memories
All around the kitchen of Arrington’s stately brick home off Cascade Road in Atlanta there are signs of a full life. Extra orange juice in the refrigerator for weekend visits from the grandkids. A throng of thirsty plants craning toward a window. Paperwork stacked on a counter. It all confirms what you suspect about this sturdy woman the moment you lay eyes on her; she is one of those 65-year-olds who is retired in name only.
Down a hall, through the dark-paneled library, there is another room. First the metal rails of a hospital bed come into view. On a nightstand, sterile alcohol, wipes and bottles say that not very long ago this was a sick room. But here and there are bits of the once-full life of Myrtle Jones, a schoolteacher from Rome, Ga.
Her bachelor’s degree from Clark University and master’s from New York University are hung prominently on a wall. Family photos crowd a dresser top. An old television is angled toward the bed; the contours in the cushions of a club chair seem well earned.
After Jones broke her hip in a nursing home about four years ago she came to live here, in this room. Just retired and newly divorced, Arrington felt she had the time to care for her mother. But even with a home health aide, it was back-breaking work. And as her mother declined it became spirit-breaking, too. Arrington’s prayers for healing gave way to ones for deliverance. For every single soul in the house.
When her mother died four days before Christmas, Arrington felt a surge of grief, but that was soon overcome by a flood of relief.
“I don’t understand people who can’t accept death,” she said, sitting at the kitchen table on a recent morning. Her voice was even, practical, as though the 5-month-old wound had left only trace scars on her heart and psyche.
“People are just unrealistic. Do you really think someone is going to live forever? Memories will sustain you. They sustain me.”
A difficult choice
But sometimes, memories that lift you up can just as easily pull you under.
Here are some things Arrington remembers: That her mother made breakfast and dinner for her, her two brothers and their father every day when she was a child. That she had one heck of an alto voice, and that “The Old Rugged Cross” was her favorite hymn. That she never really offered advice and knew the power of subtlety. That she wanted her daughter to become a teacher. That she believed you have to accept the body blows life deals you, then get right back up.
Every Mother’s Day when Arrington was little, her mother would send her out to the garden to clip three red roses for the children and a white one for her. They’d pin them on, then head to church. Sometimes they’d pose for pictures afterward. Something tangible to treasure after the flowers had faded.
So this Mother’s Day, which flower, red or white?
The question stopped Arrington. Her brown eyes narrowed and her voice caught in her throat. She leaned back in her chair. It was as though she could see the image this year’s photo would capture: She and her two brothers, half smiling for the camera, standing side by side with white blooms on their lapels. The lid that so tightly held in her grief began to come ajar.
“I can’t come to face reality,” she sputtered. “I don’t want to face reality. If I wear red, I can hear some folks at church saying, ‘Her mama died, didn’t she? Doesn’t she know she’s supposed to wear white?’ I see my mom as always being a part of me.”
To wear white “would mean she’s gone forever.”
Odds are, she said, she won’t make up her mind until just before she steps out of the door on her way to church.
But after a while she pointed to a nearby window that looks toward a small corner of the back yard. It gets a lot of sun. Arrington said she plans to plant it full of red roses.
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