Mom’s Birthday

My mother was forty-five years old when I, the sixth child, was born. I cannot even imagine the stresses she must have endured, rearing six children from birth through young adulthood. Each of us required at least eighteen years of discipline, instruction, tolerance, and of course love. That is the equivalent of one hundred and eight years devoted to her children. She would have been one hundred and nine years old today if she were still alive. But she died at age seventy-eight. It’s hard for me to believe that she’s been gone thirty-one years.  And it’s stunning for me to finally realize she gave her children more time than she had to give. On this, her birthday, I offer another reminder of one of her favorite flowers, yellow roses.