by Emilie Grace

Created on: October 04, 2007

It all started with a single yellow rose. My momma had just given birth to me, a healthy baby girl, and her parents arrived to visit the new family. Upon entering the room, my mam-maw presented my mom with a single yellow rose bud in honor of me. From that day on, my mother grew very fond of yellow roses. Time would only tell how a single yellow rose would make such an impact on my life.

My mother always loved gardening. She got that from her parents. She was raised in the country with prime real estate plotted out for as many flowers as one cared to plant. She never really called herself a true green-thumb. Truth be told, as she would say, the plants that she would care for would never make it long enough for her thumb to turn green. She had a knack for doing them in, but it didn't prevent her from purchasing and planting more.

The backyard of our house was filled with an abundance of irises, lilies, and spring bulbs in our yard. Every year, we looked forward to the spring and summer months as each bud would burst open, spilling out vibrant colors and powerful scents that we could enjoy. Momma was especially fond of her rose garden. The colors were beautiful until the Japanese beetles began feasting on them. There were red roses, pink roses, white roses, two-toned roses, and, of course, yellow roses.

In 1994, at the age of 40, my beloved momma was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. We knew this had the possibility of progressing into a crippling disease, but we didn't know when it would happen. We were struck with devastation again in the spring of 1997. Days of heavy rain produced flooding waters in our city. We had to evacuate, and leave our home behind. As the waters went down, the rushing currents had left evidence of their destructive path. As the earth dried, and the seasons progressed, it showed that the waters had destroyed all of my mom's flowers including the dearly loved rose garden.

The years passed, and I had worked a little in the yard. Mom did what she could. She was very unsteady on her feet, and could not bend over to pull a weed without losing her balance. My mom quickly went from using a cane, to a walker, to a wheelchair, and finally to a motorized scooter. By the time she had regressed to the scooter, her legs were totally useless. She ended up bedridden.

As I grieved for my mom's lack of mobility, I pondered the thought of being her legs for her. Spring had come again, and the yard was lifeless. I was working at the time, and had

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