The Last Rose of Summer
As Sister Dorothy sets a pink rose on the table, my breath catches in delight and awe. What beauty! What thoughtfulness as she shares the fruits of her gardening with us, her sisters! Along with joy, I feel an ache; the end of the flower season is drawing near. Soon I will know the reality of the “last rose of summer”¹:
‘Tis the last rose of summer
Left blooming all alone,
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone.
No flower of her kindred,
No rose bud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
And give sigh for sigh.²
Sister Lucy keeps our dining room tables decorated with bouquets of tulips, zinnias and lilies of the valley. Large bouquets on the altar platform in our chapel delight worshippers and Sister Ruth Anne who carefully places each gladiola in a vase designed to show off each stalk of pink, white, red or yellow blossoms. Sister Elizabeth and her volunteers raise and harvest flowers for display wherever they are needed. It is not an easy task as they weather heat, mosquitoes, humidity, gnats and drizzling rain along with providing winter storage for tulip and gladioli bulbs. She calls it a labor of love. We who walk by her bouquets “oh” and “ah,” often unaware of the care that has gone into providing this gift for us.
While recalling these flowering spring and summer gifts, my memory takes me to my mother, the flower queen of our neighborhood. She reigned through the glory of her tulips, peonies, daisies and gladioli. Tubs of peonies made their way to being formed into bouquets in our parish church. “Oh, Margaret Reuter’s flowers are here! It must be peony season!” Spring, summer and home were synonymous with Mom’s flamboyant and fragrant blossoms.
I am also reminded of John Ciardi, who described his spring speaking tour around the United States.³ As he moved from place to place, he received this season at his various stops. The flowering gifts moved north, beginning in Atlanta, Georgia; then to Nashville, Tennessee; Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania; and finally, to St. Paul and Minneapolis, Minnesota. As much as I hanker for a constant spring, I am glad when it comes like a subtle breeze as I anticipate these months in Minnesota after winter. When this season of returning life hints at and announces its presence, I indulge in enjoying it, soaking in its colors and fragrance. I know, too, that my memory can return to them during the winter when the white of the snow replaces the spring and summer flower festivities. For now, when Sister Dorothy sets “the last rose of summer” on the dining room table, I will hold it and its giver in gratitude—and I will “sigh.”
¹ and ² Thomas Moore, The Last Rose of Summer
³ John Ciardi, source unknown. Approximately 1960.
Mary Reuter, OSB
Photo: A pale pink rose. Taken by Sister Carleen Schomer.
