It’s Sunday, a day of rest. Yesterday I walked 17 miles near the Rose Bowl. Today I can barely walk at all. I’m shuffling around the house like an old woman. We haven’t been keeping up our walking during the week. Life keeps getting in the way.
On Wednesday night I went to the viewing of a family friend. Her name was Rose. She was 90 years old. If you ever talked to her you’d never think she was that old. She was quick as a whip. Always making everyone laugh. She told it like it is. She will be greatly missed by many people. My 20-month old siblings knew her as Grandma Rose. My mom was able to talk to her about her marital problems. She was the mother of two. Her daughter Carol is deaf and losing her sight. Carol will get visitors at first from many of Rose’s friends but slowly that will taper off and the elderly, deaf, almost blind, and slightly slow Carol will be alone. I feel bad for Carol.
At the viewing Carol kept checking to see if her mother was breathing as if she could not believe her mother was dead. The following day, at the open-casket funeral, she kissed her mom goodbye one last time. We said goodbye to her in the chapel then my step-father helped carry her to her final resting place at Rose Hills cemetery, on a hill.
Rosa R. Rickard
March 8, 1915-April 4, 2005
We love you. You will always be missed.