05/10/12: The sweet voice of Mama

This op-ed appeared in The Virginian-Pilot on the date shown.

I CAN STILL wear a red carnation.

The second Sunday in May, coming up this week, is Mother’s Day. It has been an official holiday since May 8, 1914, when Congress passed the law. Efforts to establish a national day to honor mothers started as early as the 1870s but stalled until the cause was taken up by Anna Marie Jarvis.

Jarvis wanted to honor her own mother, who had died in 1905. Three years later, her church, Andrew’s Methodist Episcopal Church in Grafton, W.Va., held the first official Mother’s Day celebration. Jarvis delivered 500 carnations, her mother’s favorite flower, to the church.

It was Jarvis’ hope that white carnations be the universal emblem for Mother’s Day, standing “as a symbol for maternal purity, faithfulness, and love,” according to one reference. Shortages of white carnations prompted florists to promote the wearing of red carnations — and other red flowers — to honor living mothers. White carnations and other white flowers were to be worn in memory of deceased mothers.

As a kid, I remember the distribution of carnations at church each Mother’s Day. I remember the recognition of mothers, with that of the oldest mother sticking in my mind. I don’t remember exactly when I became aware of the red versus white carnation, but I remember when it really hit home for me.

Last Mother’s Day, my five sisters and I gathered at the nursing home where my mother had recently become a resident.

In a private dining area, we had lunch. My favorite picture of the day is the six of us surrounding our mother.

Each of us is wearing a red rose.

Other photos from the day show us chatting and laughing, having a nice family dinner. But lurking like a cloud over us was an unspoken fear: Would this be our last Mother’s Day with our mother?

In the past year, we’ve watched as Mama — born Mary Elizabeth Manning on Feb. 22, 1920 — has gotten weaker. She was able to walk when she entered that Richmond nursing home. Now in a facility in Hampton, she’s unable to do much, not even feed herself.

Weighing over 200 pounds when she and my father were married in 1950, her weight has now dropped to about 130.

Her mind comes and goes — sometimes she recognizes me, most times not.

But there is one thing she remembers: the words to old hymns, the songs of her youth growing up in North Carolina and the ones we sang in church all those Sundays.

She can no longer play the piano, but I can. Every time I visit, I play and she sings whatever song comes to mind.

This Sunday, my sisters and I will gather to visit with her. Like we do whenever we gather, we will sing. The sweet voice of my Mama will join us.

And my sisters and I will be wearing red flowers.