Rose of Sharon

It never ends

Rose of Sharon’s mother was Dutch. From a small village, she once said, in Bollenstreek.
Raised on a tulip farm.
Of course, she would never call it a farm but rather a field.
For as long as I can remember, I was surrounded by radiant tulip bulbs, she said boisterously from the kitchen as our children and I waited upon her succulent creations.
Oh, the colors of May. My sister — she was called May and just like spring she was so full of life.

When she would visit, she’d make a home of our kitchen.
Rise before the city dwellers and pluck greens from the pantry, hunt for meat in the refrigerator and put together the sort of breakfast that scurrying city folk would call a feast.
She’s trying to take control, Rose of Sharon would declare.
Control of what, I never could comprehend.

Hours a day were dedicated to kneading, peeling, roasting and all the things that I’d imagined a mother to be. Things that I often wished Rose of Sharon could be.

Rose of Sharon was not quite fond of her name. Neither was she partial to its religious connotations nor the actual root from which her tall, elegant mother found inspiration.
Steinbeck has always been my favorite writer, she once told me, and I named your wife after one of his characters — a young character that the reader observes blossoming into a source of life before the malevolence of death.
Roseasharn, Roseasharn, she’d call upon her.
Rose of Sharon despised the moniker and insisted, time and time again, just call me Sharon, mother.
What would the world come to if mother’s simply listened to their daughters.
Why Sharon when there isn’t a flower as unique as you, my darling Roseasharn?

Rose of Sharon found that her time, and attention, was not to be squandered on household duties.
She was compelled, whether by temperament or rebellion, to cast aside or feminine assertions and give all of herself, her energies, to creation, to development, to knowledge.
It should be noted that her mother was very proud of her, even if Rose of Sharon couldn’t understand it.
Roseasharn — the family scientist, she’d brag to friends and strangers alike, to which Rose of Sharon would rebut with, I’m an engineer, mother. An engineer.

The children all seemed to be truly in love with their grandmother. What child isn’t?
It appears that grandparents want nothing more than to give their grandchildren that which they failed to offer their children. A second take, if you will, and there is no greater gift to give a child than attention.
That she gave in spades.
She’d ask about their dreams, about school and friends, about the different shades callously strewn on drawing paper, about life in a country that was not of her birth and the children, in turn, would fall asleep on her lap, on her shoulder, on her bosom.
Arms wrapped around the object of their affection, drool trickling down in familiar rivers, soaking into the floral patterns of her dress.

She’s coddling them, Rose of Sharon would whisper to me as I tried to reel her into her marital duties.
I don’t like it. They need to understand that the world won’t be that kind, that affectionate.
And with that, my desires were made irrelevant.
A husband can truly offer only one thing; an ear. Anything more, I have come to learn, is met with shades of resentment.
There was a lot that my ears grasped from Rose of Sharon’s disenchantment. None of which, I might add, gave much room for reality.
Well, that or I was painting her allusions with my own shades of resentment.

You’ve got violin this evening so I don’t want you dillydallying around the kitchen with grandma after school. Alright?!
Her mother stood right there and being the outspoken woman that she was, she couldn’t help but say,
I definitely hope I wasn’t as harsh with you when you were a child.
Rose of Sharon said nothing or, maybe, she said everything that she needed to say.
It could be that it was said with her glare, her indignant sigh, or her refusal to respond in any way beyond simply… being.
Your mother is a very smart woman children, but I’ll have you know, there’s more than one way to get the world to bend to your will.
She took a hold of spring onions and bend them down the middle. The children giggled as they rushed to keep up with their mother.

Rose of Sharon left her home when she was quite young. Not much was shared about the Dutch lowlands or her childhood.
All that the children and I knew from years gone came from her mother.
But even so, there were some stories that were never shared, some topics never discussed, some subjects never ventured.
Most apparent of these was that of Rose of Sharon’s father, my children’s grandfather.
I knew that he was still alive. I also knew that he and my mother-in-law were divorced, or at the very least, separated.
I knew… I assumed that Rose of Sharon held both parents responsible for the person that she was.

Many a fight had ended with the MOAB maybe I’d be exactly who you wanted me to be if my parents were like yours.
Not much can be said once something of the sort is uttered.
Believe me, I wish I could say something. I have wished and prayed for the strength to defy all norms and say,
you can’t just walk away from this by blaming every misstep on your parents who aren’t here to defend themselves.
Let the record show that you cannot petition the good Lord with prayer.

Rose of Sharon had friends in high places. Places that demanded her evenings, her weekends, and time away from her family.
We were all expected to understand, you see, as Rose of Sharon was breaking the mold in her field of expertise. She was, as contemporary pieces would write, a woman amongst men. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Many an article had been published to cast a light on her brilliance, her tenacity, her dominance.
Her mother would stand by the wall where one might expect family photos only to find an altar to the woman that her daughter had become.

She is something else, isn’t she?
She said to me after the children had gone to bed one evening.

She is, I responded.

I often wonder whether I did this to her. I am always grateful to be in your home, to be with my grandchildren but there is a coldness here that my love simply cannot thaw.
She poured herself a glass of wine and walked over to the couch.
How can you put up with her detachment? How is it that a man as sensitive as you could find love in her?

She’ve very different from the rest of me, was all I could muster the strength to say.

Mmmh! came her response as she sipped from the glass leaving a deep dark red upon the rim.
Very different from most people she’s around, I imagine.

Very different from her mother, her husband, and even her own children.

Long past the night lights were turned off, Rose of Sharon would emerge — a quiet silhouette in the dim glow of the wine cabinet. Right there filling a glass with the same vintage that her mother found pleasure in.

How was your day? I asked, my voice barely breaking the space between us.

She would look at me — eyes cold, detached — and say,
okay.

The children wanted you to read to them tonight.

The'y’ve got mother.

I lingered for a moment, hoping.

Well, goodnight, I turned and walked up the staircase.