As I have done many times before, I thought of my dad when I
passed by the yellow roses that greeted me as I entered the grocery store. They were his favorite flower. They were the flowers that draped over his
casket soon to be 43 years ago. Now I
have lived more years without my dad than with him, as he was only 42 when he
died. Though he died of incurable
sadness, the yellow roses always make me smile, as I think of how he loved to
laugh in happier times, as well as how he loved people. I remember his helping us write poems for
homework assignments. Here is one in his
memory:
Yellow roses, reminding me of you,
Yellow roses, packaged or in dew.
Lovely flowers tie me to the past,
Bring to mind questions to ask.
How much would you have loved
Grandchildren’s sweet smiles?
Laughed over baby’s births,
Cried at family’s trials?
Lives of service, music, animals, travels,
You so would you have enjoyed; no denial.
A father forty three years ago
You were to sister, brother, and me.
But at forty two years, you sought release.
Life was too hard, hope to scarce,
Troubles doubled up, heart too pierced.
Yellow roses trailed you, atop your grave,
Leaving dear ones’ hearts broken
At not being able to save
A father whose laughter sometimes
Brought yellow rose sunshine
In too brief measure
To lives he treasured.
Driving up highway 101 today through the fertile Salinas Valley, I scanned through the available radio stations and settled on a traditional Mexican music station. I don't know much about Mexican music and understand only a miniscule amount of Spanish, but somehow driving between expansive vineyards and wide green fields of who-knows-what kind of vegetables, traditionally tended by Mexican immigrants, it felt appropriate to be listening to "la musica mexicana," three words I understood from the announcer. Signs along the roadside contain more Spanish proper nouns than English ones, a reflection of the centuries-old Spanish influence here. Early in the last century, a womens' group placed mission bells all along El Camino Real (now Highway 101), or The King's Highway, in honor of Spanish missionaries who traveled this way to bring the Gospel to the indigenous people, as well as to claim territory for Spain. As I listened to the the music I thought of how California and Mexico were both Spanish colonies at one time and how the border between the two is a relatively recent phenomenon. My rational mind understands why our country must have immigration laws, but my foolish heart senses we wouldn't have a United States of America if these laws had been in place when my ancestors immigrated.
