THE ROSE


One by one my four young children walked to their fathers' grave and placed a blood red rose on his casket. I sat as if welded to the metal chair, motionless, disconnected, numb. Only the whirl of wind through nearby trees swept through my head.

It would have been a blessing, a final compliment to a man who left his family emotionally and physically damaged. That single blood red rose would acknowledge the end of an honorable life. Was it five minutes? Ten, thirty? I turned my head, saw the questioning in the Rabbis' eyes. The Cantor was shifting from one foot to the other. The professional wailers with their heads bent toward me appeared annoyed. My ten year old son, Michael put his hand on my arm. He whispered "Mom!". I could not nor would not move.

The Rabbi went on with the service. I cannot recall any other part of it. When others around me began to stand, my children gathered in front of me. We, as one, moved slowly through those who had come to pay their last respects. Respects? Respect?

I did what I'd always done. I smiled at each person there. I thanked them and asked how they were doing. I was not the expected grieving widow.


My children and I huddled in the back seat of the funeral limousine. The last time I'd ridden in a limo was the day of our marriage. The distance of time, eighteen years, was a blur. I was confused and overwhelmed. My body numb. Katie, six years old, sat on my lap. Her small arms wrapped tightly around my neck. Her precious face nuzzled on my chest. I held her tight. I still held that damn rose in my hand. I didn't want my children to see me dispose of it. I slipped my hand down, dropped it just under the seat. With the heel of my shoe I grounded into the floor. We shed no tears. We sat in a stupor, silent. The limo left us in front of our home. We walked in. I closed the door.