I CALLED YOU ROSE

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It was a dark miserable and stormy evening as Rosanne parked her car near the funeral parlor. Once again, she was crippled with uncertainty and overwhelming doubts as to why she was here, why she had made this journey. Something deep inside told her that she needed to see this through to the very end. At the last minute she had decided to come, she just had to. Rushing through the busy evening traffic she barely made it on time. Tom, her husband wanted to drive but she insisted on going this journey alone.

Taking a deep breath, she locked her car and walked into the funeral parlor. No one really looked at her, after all she was just another face in a crowd. Even though her legs were shaking she felt a little more confident with each tentative step and so she eventually found herself standing before the wooden casket totally alone. Everyone else was gathered around the chief mourners, quietly talking and shaking hands. People barely glanced at the coffin, seemingly more intent on talking to the living, which created for Rosanne a quiet space in the midst of the crowd, a golden and unexpected opportunity.

As a nurse she was used to death, and she did understand that People often didn’t know what to do when confronted with it. In their uncertainty they often did and said the daftest things. Rosanne had witnessed new life coming into the world in her role as a midwife, and she had held the hands of many people as they took their final breath. Beginnings and endings in the circle of life, each and every one, she knew were a privilege to be a part of.

She felt invisible to everyone around her which was exactly how she wanted it to be. That was the plan after all, to slip in quietly, pay her respects and leave. She looked at the face she had never seen in person before but had imagined religiously. “It wasn’t meant to be like this”, she thought to herself, as she drank in every feature, every line of the 70-year-old woman lying in front of her. Reaching in, she gently touched the cold hands that were entwined with the customary catholic rosary beads. Breathing deeply, she remained steadfast in her need to see this through to the end. “She was here to complete the circle”, she thought as she placed a single red rose beside the coffin.

Time stood still, and it seemed that, in that moment, there was just the two of them, together at last, but not together at all, she thought sadly. Death had come along unexpectedly and robbed her of the meeting that was finally meant to happen. Beginnings and endings, she thought quietly to herself. It seemed apt, as she stood here alone in this quiet space. Apt that once, a long time ago at the beginning, there was just the two of them and now here they were again, the two of them at the end, That’s as it is, she thought to herself, we come into this world alone and ultimately we leave it on our own regardless of who is present..

Contact had started two years earlier through numerous social workers, when Rosanne was 50. She decided to make the first move, and over a long time and numerous attempts by the social workers to get Margaret to meet she managed to secure a name and address. Remembering back to that first letter and the numerous attempts to put words down on paper, she eventually decided to say very little. “Short was best,” she realized.

Dear Margaret,

My name is Rosanne, and I would like to meet you. .....

Weeks passed with no response but something in Rosanne persisted, two further letters were met with a deafening silence. After a lot of sleepless nights, and chats with her ever-supportive husband she decided sadly that for now it just wasn’t meant to be. She would leave it for awhile and try again later. Working as a midwife kept her busy, but watching and helping new life into the world meant Margaret was never too far from her thoughts. No matter how many babies she had helped to deliver, and there had been many, she still saw each and every one as a miracle of life.Time passed by and arriving in exhausted from work one evening she gathered up the post, flicking through to see if there was anything for her. “Bills, junk mail and surprise surprise more bills” she thought as she threw them on the table in the hallway. There was one more letter in a pale blue envelope with shaky handwriting addressed to.

Roseanne Delaney.

Orchard Way,

Mullinstown ,County Wicklow

Not recognizing the writing, she decided to make herself a cuppa throw off her shoes, put her weary feet up before opening it. Like the envelope, the paper was a pale blue parchment. As she unfolded it she gasped when she saw the address at the top. She had written it often enough, hadn’t she?.

2 Hillview,

Crosstown,

Co Cork.

Dear Roseanne.

I am sorry for not writing sooner, but your letter came as such a shock to me. You see, I have never spoken about you to anyone. I’m so sorry Rosanne but I can’t meet you, it can never ever be. I’m old now, and life hasn’t been easy, too much sadness, too many memories…... best left alone… best not spoken about.

Dearest Rose, please, please forgive me. By the way, I named you Rose in the few moments I was allowed to hold you all those years ago. You will always be that to me. There’s not a day goes by that I don’t pray for you and hope that life has been good. I do love your name . I’ve always loved roses, you see, especially when they are in bloom.

They need love and care for that to happen. I hope you have been loved and cared for my dearest child, my beautiful Rose.

Signed,

Margaret Cullen .

Rosanne didn’t even notice the silent tears falling, as she read the words in front of her. The pain of rejection hitting her hard all over again. Yet; somewhere in those words she felt a flicker of love, a connection that was barely noticeable. A connection that was so fragile, but it was something tangible to hold on to, a response, an acknowledgment of sorts. It was enough for Rosanne to pen another letter, telling Margaret all about her life. She poured fifty-two years of living on to the pages. Once she started she couldn’t stop. The overwhelming need to nurture this very fragile communication that had been made, was more than her life’s worth.

And so, began a relationship of sorts, through the power of the written word. A mutual gradual trust seemed to develop through the simplicity of letter writing. Neither made demands on each other but spoke honestly about their lives. Rosanne never asked about meeting again, afraid to threaten the beautiful relationship that was being created. She knew Margaret felt safe and as a result there was an openness and honesty in their mutual sharing on paper, an openness that may not be as strong if they spoke to each other face to face.

Rosanne knew there was something very special happening as letters went back and forth. Putting pen to paper seemed to allow each to tell their story in a non-threatening and safe way that was beautiful in it’s purity.

The letters became a journal of sorts, a story of two lives filled with love, sadness, happiness, and life’s experiences. They managed to form a tender and loving bond, a connection that was so precious she would do nothing to jeopardize it. “For now, maybe even forever it’s enough,” she thought.

Rosanne learned all about Margaret’s life, her two daughters, only a few years younger than herself. Her husband, who had passed away, and the ups and downs of her fractious relationship with her older daughter Ann. And Margaret too learned all about Rosanne's life, her husband Tom, her two daughters Deirdre and Helen who had flown the nest in the last year, leaving Tom and herself alone once again. She told her all about her life as a nurse, a job she loved and was proud to do. She shared funny and sad stories with Margaret of people she met along the way.

She shared her own breast cancer experience, her own diagnosis that urged her to live life to the fullest. That urged her to revisit and re trace her past in a compassionate way. Leading her to where she was at right now on her journey of discovery. Over the last while something very subtle had started to come into the letters. Margaret had started to gently hint about meeting. Rosanne allowed her to be the one to initiate it, never forcing the issue, just allowing the idea to naturally grow and blossom over time.

The last thing she wanted to do was break this tender connection they had together .Recently Margaret became more direct in her request to meet. “We will do it soon” she said, “new beginnings, new memories to create,”, were her words in her last letter. A letter filled with love and warmth that poured off the pages. Rosanne was looking forward to the meeting with a peace in her heart. At this stage she felt they knew each other very well, having shared so much in their letters. She looked forward to finally sitting down together and making the circle complete. Her husband Tom, who had supported her all the way was over the moon and held her tightly as she told him the news of the intended meeting.

Enjoying a leisurely cup of coffee in her local hotel two days ago, she was reading The Irish Independent. As she always did, she read through the death notices, [a habit she had developed from working as a nurse].

And there it was.

Margaret Cullen… after a short illness, in the loving care of her daughters Marie and Ann.

Rosanne read it again and again to make sure she wasn’t dreaming, but it was as it said. Margaret had passed away. It was over. Rosanne felt numb as the finality of her passing hit her in waves of disbelief. “So, that’s it” she thought to herself sadly, “that’s the end of the story.”

She sat for awhile longer resigning herself to the new reality of her loss, reflecting over the many letters full of love that had passed between them. “No,” she thought suddenly, “they were real, behind each word was our life story, I’m real, I do exist, we did exist, I have to go, I have to see her” She checked and double checked the funeral times and her mind was made up. She had to be there, she had to complete this circle of her life….beginnings and endings. Together at the beginning and together at the end. Life and death.

Rosanne was brought back from her thoughts as a woman gently touched her shoulder. She hadn’t realized that the tears were coursing down her face, and her hands were still wrapped around the cold hands of the lady she called Margaret, her mother who had given her up for adoption all those years ago. Glancing up, she was embarrassed to see that everyone was looking at her . As she turned around to see who had touched her shoulder she found herself looking at her own mirror image. “How did you know my mother?” the lady asked.