In the southern Southern Baptist Churches in which I was raised
it was customary to wear a rose in one’s lapel on Mother’s Day.
A red rose would signify that one’s mother was living,
a white one that she was not.
My father wore no rose.
His mother was no longer here,
so he would not wear a red rose,
but to wear a white one would be a lie,
for death, long ago conquered,
had not conquered her.