This picture shows me sitting in the family cemetery at Judes Ferry. The date is January 21, 2018, just after we had buried my father. To the right of that fresh patch of red clay is my mother, buried in October of 1994. Further still to the right is my baby brother, born and buried in December of 1966. To the left, out of the frame, is Aunt Helen, buried in 2005.

When my mother died, I came to Virginia for the funeral. We had (and still have) a huge Sitka rose in our back yard in Craig, and at the time it was busily putting up daughter plants. Before I left, I dug up one of these plants, put it in a pot, and flew to Virginia with it in my lap. A woman who was about the same age I am now sat next to me and asked me about it. I explained that I was going to Virginia for my mother’s funeral, and that I planned to plant the rose at her grave. I said it was used to a mild, damp climate, so I didn’t know how it would handle the Virginia summer. This lady was kind without being maudlin, motherly without being overbearing. She listened to my stories and looked discreetly away whenever I started to puddle up. It happened that we both had a layover at the same airport. Even though she was going in the opposite direction, she walked with me to my gate and wished me well.

That rose truly did not like the Virginia summers. For some years it soldiered along but did not thrive. It’s first and only bloom came on Mother’s Day 2003, nine years after I planted it. It did not come back in spring of 2004.

A song lyric keeps running through my head: “This could be the last time. It may be the last time, I don’t know.” Melancholy? Sure, a bit. But I treasure my mother, and those who have pinch-hit for her, regardless of the duration of their service. One the other side of the coin, I will probably always feel mildly dazed by the realization that I am myself the mother of two grown men. This day leaves me more than a little bemused, but I celebrate it just the same.