It’s been six months, as of today, since my mother died. I feel like I’m in a Greek myth-Freaky Friday mash-up: I’m Persephone waiting for Ceres to come back after her half-year in the Underworld. It ain’t gonna happen, but I still rather expect Mom to show up and want to know why we haven’t finished fixing up the house.
Oh well.
To mark the day, here’s one of my mother’s favourite poems, “One Perfect Rose,” by one of her favourite authors, Dorothy Parker:
A single flow’r he sent me, since we met.
All tenderly his messenger he chose;
Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet –
One perfect rose.
I knew the language of the floweret;
‘My fragile leaves,’ it said, ‘his heart enclose.’
Love long has taken for his amulet
One perfect rose.
Why is it no one ever sent me yet
One perfect limousine, do you suppose?
Ah no, it’s always just my luck to get
One perfect rose.
Hi there! This post couldn’t be written any better!
Reading through this post reminds me of my good old room mate!
He always kept chatting about this. I will forward this article to him.
Pretty sure he will have a good read. Thanks for sharing!
Much appreciated. But about what does your old roommate keep chatting? The Parker poem? It is quite clever.
Thinking of you today, Ruth. Hope all is well with you.
Thank you, Lydia. Really: thank you.
That was a beautiful poem. Thank you for sharing it.
I think it should be said that my mom didn’t want one perfect limousine.
She wanted one perfect convertible.
Ruth