There is a rose garden in the botanical garden near my home, and now it is the season of the autumn roses. Among them is a deep pink rose, more vivid than any other. I have taken it upon myself to call it “my mother’s rose.” It was the color she loved. She wore lipstick in this color, dresses and blouses in this color. Her apron, too, now that I think of it. Roses of this color grew in the garden at home as well. And for years I kept my distance from this color, thinking it too showy.
Now, when I see it, I remember my mother laughing — “Ah, that’s my mother’s color” — and I smile ruefully, and miss her very much. Around this time last year her health failed, she went into the hospital, and she passed away there. I wish I had brought her here while she was well and shown her this rose. Whenever that thought comes, this vivid color turns at once into the color of regret, and I lower my eyes.
Rose, I’m sorry. Right now I am painting my memories onto you, layer upon layer — my avoidance, my longing for my mother, my regret. May they peel away, little by little, so that you may shine with the beauty that is truly your own. Cleaning my memories so that this can happen is, I believe, my responsibility.
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