The Cloying Sweetness of Roses posted 7/3/2008 4:58:36 PM | 22 kudos what's this?     report abuse tagged: hope, love, strength

LaughTillYaPuke

One of the few flowers I'm not fond of. I'm more a lily of the valley or peonies kind of gal. But my mother has always had profuse rose bushes. She's coming to visit. Again. She says it's been two years, it feels like only 2 months ago.

You could almost sum up this blog by saying that she and I don't get along, but it's much much more than that. My one brother has fallen off the wagon (again) since hearing the news, another has become home bound and one of my sisters has scraped enough dough together to see a shrink twice a week for the entire month of July. So it's not just me. It can't be.

I've suddenly feel the need to wear my bruxism plate to bed in an effort not to grind my teeth to nubs while sleeping, and found myself crying on the phone last night to Jim about my absolute horror of this upcoming visit. I have promised him that no matter what happens between us, he will never have to meet her. He did what he does best and helped me find a way to laugh about the whole thing. Last night anyway. And with my Jim armor on, I felt that today would be the perfect day to clean her house and get it ready for her visit next week. You have to go in feeling strong. Although it does help to know that you won't be alone and that the phone will ring again tonight and I can unload my baggage and leave pieces of myself somewhere in Ohio.

Becky and I meet with our buckets and cleaning supplies. Her husband showed up earlier this morning and opened all the windows. Houses get a funky smell when deserted for too long. The mice and spiders take over. I swear it is the smell of dead bodies in that house. I'm wearing my worst clothes. A ripped pair of jeans, one of Norbert's (my late step-father) old flannel shirts and a bandana. I need to know that I can just burn what I'm wearing when we are done.

Becky goes in to throw a Marc Brousarrd CD in while I talk to my brother in-law Andy outside. He is trying to mentally pump me up for the chore ahead. It takes less than 5 minutes for Becky to come out dry heaving. I knew it. It's the smell. Totally psychological, but that doesn't change it's physical manifestations one bit. I am ever so grateful I decided not to eat today.

"I hate her. I don't want the boys anywhere near her. Why do we do this? Why can't we just walk away?" All this in one long sentence between gasps of air trying not to puke. My brother in law is pissed. Really the only time you see him get angry. When my mother is mentioned. He goes to his wife and holds her face against his shirt. I envy her the ability to smell a good strong man and be mentally taken away even if only for a few moments. But she's earned this. She chose well. And she shakes her head when he asks no one in particular just what the f*** this woman did to her kids.

There is no complete answer. And we have learned through the years that the telling of the stories in no way conveys the horror. Even I, with my love for words find myself shaking and fighting back the tears when it's time to share the stories. Stephen King I am not. Sometimes life is stranger than fiction. She pushes away from him and begins to dig through my car looking for a smoke. I have none. She leaves. Drives off with my car and we both know she has gone to by a pack of smokes.

"Those roses bushes don't help" I tell him. They are piled up and growing over the front windows. I try to explain to him that the smell of roses and the smell of my mother combined is too much for anyone of her blood to take. He nods and gets in his car and leaves. There I stand. Lost. Again. Christ, it's amazing how you can feel 5 years old again. And I look at that house and decide that it is no different than any other obstacle that I have faced. It's 4 walls with a smell. Filled with a bunch of shit. But in the end, it really has no power over me unless I let it.

Andy is back before Becky is, and I am cleaning out the fridge. Bandanna smeared with my own scented oil, now wrapped around my mouth like a mask. I can smell only me. My own home. I am stunned by the sound of a chain saw. And there he is, cutting down those rose pushes that have climbed up to the low roof. My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my ears. The hell there is going to pay when the Goddess sees what we have done. My blood pressure rising and I feel like I can't breathe.

I can hear the chainsaw revving up, slowing down, and the sounds swirl back up to a fever pitch. Almost 10 minutes of this. And while I can't see his hand, suddenly, I'm standing in a shaft of light. A small section torn away as the sun claws it's way into the room. He slowly and methodically works his way across the whole front of the house until all 20 feet of windows are exposed.

I stand there, a sponge dripping filthy water down my jeans as he drags huge chunks of tangled roses across the street to the curb. 9 trips in all. I counted every one. He walked along the house and disappeared from my view only to return with a bright red plastic canister. He liberally coated the whole gory mess with gasoline and throws an entire book of matches on it. It's green and lush, but nothing can fight the awesome power of gasoline.

He has left one large rose bush by the driveway. A pink beastly thing that is desperately trying to choke out the beautiful purple clematis. In fact, that one bush alone is larger than my car. Let her have that then I think. We can dodge that flowered bitch if we must. But I think I can do this now. Survive this visit with my mother the horror. That one act by a strong man may just be the strength that I needed.

And that moment in time will forever be locked in my memory. Standing in that shaft of sunlight, the breeze finally able to work it's way to the screen window. My sister sitting across the street in my car, smoking a cig and crying. That astounding moment when love overcame it all. That romance can still exist after 20 years of marriage for those two. And I see him scratched an bloody walking over to my car. Clothes torn, grim face. And he leans in the window and tenderly kisses her lips. And then, my hard heart cries too. For the possibilities. For hope. But most of all for the power of love.

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Blogs by LaughTillYaPuke: We Lived the Same Closer to Him Lather, Rinse, Repeat Out of the Ordinary Magic 8 Ball I Dream of real Men The Lint Roller I Live like this all Day Long Ride Hate, Misery, and the relief that only comes from sharing it Strut Agenda's The Cloying Sweetness of Roses Burning a Hole in my Pocket Polka Dot Confection Something Delectable I dance with the Goose Man, Coo Coo Kachoo Words, Blood and the Nemesis Lunch Lady Land Knowledge is Power We forget to live Madness and Mayhem As Good as Gone And I Run The Re-Gifter