~ A LINGERING SCENT OF ROSES ~

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A Lingering Scent of Roses
by Virginia Hall Graves
Savannah, Georgia

At the time my son was born in 1956, I shared a hospital room with a
young woman who bore a son on the same day. Partly because my
parents owned a florist shop, I received an unusual number of
bouquets and the room was soon filled with the lovely scent of roses.
"This is like being in a flower garden," my roommate, Ann, said as
the seventh flower arrangement was brought in and placed on my side
of the room. By now I was beginning to feel uncomfortable, for it
was obvious that no flowers had arrived for Ann. She sat on the edge
of her bed and leaned forward to admire the latest bouquet. She was
a pretty young woman with long, blond hair and large, brown eyes,
yet there was something about her eyes that made me think she had
known too much struggling, too much sadness for one so young. I had
the feeling she had always had to admire someone else's flowers.
"I'm enjoying every minute of this," she said as though she were
reading my thoughts and trying to reassure me. "Wasn't I the lucky
one to get you for a roommate?"
I still felt uncomfortable, however. If only there were some magic
button I could push to take away the sadness in her eyes. Well, I
thought, at least I can see that she has some flowers. When my
mother and father came to see me that day. I asked if they couldn't
send something to her.
"Of course," my father said. "We'll get a bouquet here this
afternoon."
The flowers arrived just as Ann and I were finishing our supper
trays.
"Another bouquet for you," she said, laughing.
"No, not this time," I said, looking at the card. "These are for
you."
Ann stared at the flowers a long time, not saying anything. She ran
her fingers across the pale blue ceramic bootee and lightly touched
each of the sweetheart roses nestled inside as though trying to
engrave the bouquet on her memory.
"How can I ever thank you?" she said softly when she finally spoke.
I was almost embarrassed. It was such a little kindness on my part.
Ann and I were in touch only once or twice after leaving the
hospital. Both of us moved away, never seeing or hearing from each
other again. Unknown to each other, however, we both eventually
returned to the city where our sons were born.
The son born to my husband and me that day in 1956 turned out to be
our only child. For nearly 21 years, he filled our lives with love
and laughter, making us feel complete. But on an Easter morning in
April, after a long, painful battle with cancer, he died quietly in
our arms.
Ann never knew our son, never knew of his illness, yet one day she
picked up a newspaper and read his death notice. She went to her
closet and unpacked something she had saved all those years: the
blue ceramic bootee I had given her.
At the funeral home a few minutes before we were to leave for the
church services, I was alone with my son in a room filled with the
scent of roses, when a delivery man brought in a tiny bouquet. I
didn't read the card until later, as we rode to the cemetery. "To W.
John Graves," the card read, "from the boy who was born with you at
Memorial Hospital, and his mother."
Only then did I recognize the little blue bootee I had given to Ann
so many years ago, once again filled with sweetheart roses. I passed
the card to my mother sitting beside me. She, too, remembered.
"A kindness returned," Mother said.
A few day s later several members of our family went back to the
cemetery to help us clear John's grave. The bootee of roses sat at
its foot, towered over by tall wreaths and sprays.
"How odd that anyone would send something like that to a funeral,"
someone said. "Flowers like that are more appropriate for a birth."
"There was a birth," said my husband quietly. "John was born into
Eternal Life." I looked at him with surprise, knowing such words
were difficult for a man who had never spoken openly about such
matters.
He emptied out the flowers and handed me the ceramic bootee. I held
it in the palm of my hand and, just as Ann had done, I traced it
with my fingers, thinking now of all the messages it contained: the
embers of friendship that glow through the years, gratitude
remembered, and beneath it all, the promise of Resurrection, which
comforted us now.