|Top right - Rosa 'Margaret Merril' & Rosa 'Sombreui' 13 September 2022|
I will start this blog (the body) is after this poem by a tough cookie Argentine poet (Avellaneda, 29 April, 1936 - Buenos Aires, 25 September, 1972) Alejandra Pizarnik that I adore as she is no-nonsense and reminds me of my Rosemary. I wrote about Pizarnik in link below.
Las promesas de la música
Detrás de un muro blanco la variedad del arco iris. La muñeca en su jaula está haciendo el otoño. Es el despertar de las ofrendas. Un jardín recién creado, un llanto detrás de la música. Y que suene siempre, así nadie asistirá al movimiento del nacimiento, a la mímica de las ofrendas, al discurso de aquella que soy anudada a esta silenciosa que también soy. Y que de mí no quede más que la alegría de quien pidió entrar y le fue concedido. Es la música, es la muerte, lo que yo quise decir en noches variadas como los colores del bosque.
Behind that white Wall the variety of the rainbow. The doll in her cage is making autumn. It is the beginning of the offerings. A just created garden, a cry behind the music. And it should sound always, so that nobody will attend the moment of that birth, of the music of the offerings, and a speech by me who is knotted to that silent one that is also me. And that of me all that shall remain is that happiness of having been asked to enter and it was bestowed. It is music, it is death, what I wanted to say in nights as varied as the colours of the forest.
My poor translation
There is this paradoxical conundrum of seeing today 13 September 2022 the white roses, Rosa ‘Margaret Merril’ and Rosa ‘Sombreuil’ and knowing I have to cut and scan them. There is that conundrum of what I can write about them and of their colour that is new as I have many times in the past.
White is seen as pure, virginal, clean, delicate, bright and sometime blinding. My approach to this blog is to write what seems to be my obsession. This is to equate everything I do, see and feel to my former wife of 52 years Rosemary. This is my second year of her dying and I realize it is a lot worse than the first year.
Saying that white is pure, virginal, clean, delicate, bright and sometime blinding does define Rosemary. But thinking how these definitions describe my two roses who are constantly blooming is to find out that they are not delicate or touchy. They are tough. Rosemary was tough and firm in my life. She pushed me to do things. She was my example on how I, too, had to take photographs when I had a blinding migraine. Obligation was paramount to her and it became paramount to me.
Thinking now of her going to visit her mother in New Dublin and how she would land in Ottawa in a snowstorm and she would calmly rent a car and drive home now makes me realize I should have had the fear of God about that.
Before our first daughter was born she told us that we needed the money. She informed me that she was going to have the birth induced on a Friday night and then planned to go back to work on a Monday so she would not miss being paid our hourly wages teaching English. I don’t remember if she made it back on that Monday but she did return quickly.
Before Alexandra was born (it was the 9th month) we went to the Mexican department store, Puerto de Liverpool. She was looking for a short waste dress. A woman came and told us that we were on the wrong area and pointed us to the maternity department.
Rosemary was pleasantly indignant and, as pregnant as she was, she bent down to touch the floor with not only her fingers but with her palms. I remember the lovely dress she bought which she wore not long after Alexandra was born.
If I am to keep living in my present state of melancholy and grief I should put my chin up and know that had I been the first to go, my tough Rosemary would have handled it with grace.
I believe that Rosemary had a premonition of her death so she made sure we had a will and arranged it with our financial advisor to make sure I would be advised well on financial matters. He is good but my tough Rosemary was better!