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When my mom, Charlotte, died, it was as the result of a hip-breaking fall on the day after Mother's Day six years ago. The day before I'd gone over to take her out for dinner and found her napping. "Do we have to go out?" she asked. "Of course not," I replied. As I had so often in the past 3 years, I gave her a little kiss and went home. Around 5:00 the next afternoon, I was in my studio painting when I got the call to come urgently over to the assisted living place. One look at her lying on the floor told the story. With characteristic practicality, she only wanted help getting back to her bed. Of course, that couldn't happen. The next week was a blur of hospital and, then, hospice; two days before the end, she came home to die. I think it a remarkable testament to her gracious character that her last words were "thank you." She was 96 and 1/2.

A couple of days later, my sisters and I went to collect mom's ashes. There was a simple, touching memorial service at her place, with family, a few friends and all the residents gathered to celebrate this much-admired woman. My eldest sister and her daughter brought for the altar a large bunch of roses they'd found at a grocery store. Unlike most store-bought roses, these delicate pinkish-white flowers had a strong and lasting fragrance. Afterwards, they ended up back at my house and for days after the family had gone home, their fragrant petals remained, apparently waiting for me to recover from the shock of mom's sudden departure so I could paint them.

I had to force myself to start up again. Painting seemed too painful, far too life-affirming than I could muster energy for. But those roses beckoned. They seemed to embody the bittersweet complexity of my mom's passing. She'd wanted to "go" and now was free, but what did it mean that I was left behind, feeling at a complete loss? Making the rose painting seemed to confirm both of these realities. As worked on it I came to realize that whether I felt up to it or not, the impulse to paint did actually live on—there was going to be life after my mother's death. Eventually, the petals of that magnificent bouquet did fall and the painting was complete.  I called it "More Life Still," even though I couldn't quite see how or why that should happen. Such is the nature of grief.

The painting of those magnificent roses, one that I'll likely never offer for purchase, is hung prominently where I see it several times a day. Those now long-gone blossoms remind me of my mother, absent from my sight and beyond my touch, but still living in my heart. They help me me realize that while other unthinkable losses await all of us, they too (in their own time) will affirm that those we love and lose still live on in our hearts and minds, if not in a familiar physicality. I pray that through each loss and inevitable grief, we all come to realize, as I did, that the blank canvas of life calls yet again for the touch of our brush.