Flowers. Purple flower painting above your head, a purple flower unfurling in rectangular splendor. You lying underneath the purple flowers, colorful quilts covering your thin body. You were still beautiful, as a woman is, at 99. I sat next you to you, pulled up a collapsible chair and sat with you when you were in the middle of dinner. Repast was meatloaf, I think with mashed potatoes. A wonderful, steaming creation made with heart by Darlene. You kept dabbing your mouth and I spoke about nothing. The weather, the fires, this and that. I guess just to hear my voice, to fill the room with my sound. I stopped and said, Rose, tell me to be quiet. I know I’m talking incessantly. She replied “ I don’t like to talk during dinner.” She ordered me to come back with a bowl of hot food and sit with her. I did so. “I am a florist”, Rose had proudly told me. The title of florist had seeped into her skin, into her Way. She was indeed a florist, she was indeed a flower. She helped me water her beautiful potted flowers, a collection including a purple orchid and some pretty orange Gerber daisies. I would bring each pot to her so she could stick her fingers in and check the soil for me.

I first met Rose when she was in the midst of remembering her apartment, I think located on the Mesa. She had wanted to go back to her home, her apartment, but during later visits I did not hear anymore homesick words.

I brought a New York Times article on Katherine Hepburn to Sarah House for Rose. I read the article out loud to her while she scrutinized Hepburn’s photo. Apparently Hepburn had a severe case of stage fright. It was dark outside while Rose’s room was suffused with warm light. The television blared CNN and the house dog, Sarah scuttled back and forth outside of Rose’s room.

I loved bringing Pearl flowers. She would exclaim at the mere sight of them and always wanted them placed within her view. “Oh” she would croon, while touching the petals, “How beautiful”.

I brought Pearl red roses the last time I saw her. She was lifeless under her blankets in bed with soft classical music wafting through the cool air. There were flowers encircling her head similar to how rays encircle the sun’s burning orb. The lines etched into her face were relaxed and her mouth was softened. Her eyes were shut. She had left, maybe to tend a garden up there, in the Heavens.