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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 days 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.
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