“Madame Rosa,” her real name is simply Rosa. But I’ve given her the grander and dramatic name because she reminds me in some imaginary way of the gypsy woman with the crystal ball on a table, who is about to tell you of your past and future. No, she is not a mystic or a seer. In fact, she has had a very productive career in the fields of counseling, self-esteem, personal and family matters, as well as group presentations.
I write all of this so you might know just a little of her background. Rosa has the strength of personality and will of a woman who knows who she is and always has been. She is a helpful, generous, loving individual that minces no words about her philosophy as it may apply to a client’s problems or concerns.
The irony of Rosa’s story is that it has been some eighteen months to two years that she has had to accept that she is mortal like the rest of us having survived two strokes and a heart attack. After much thought and determination, true to her sense of will power, she announced to family and friends that she had had enough of doctors, hospitals, and pills and is setting about to die, as almost at her command—she was, as usual, in control.
Now, instead she seems to have met her fate realizing that she was not the only one in control. Madam Rosa and the crystal ball are no more—replaced by a despondent shadow of the persona that she once was. It is just a waiting game now.
Recently I took her a Christmas gift and we had a good visit. She managed to open the box and take the many-colored scarf and wrap it around her shoulders. Her smile reminded me of other good times we had met at her kitchen table for what I called “tea and sympathy.” She always had the right answer.
One time, when we went to lunch, she asked me to run by a number of stores. It was that frantic time of the year between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Her niece had unpacked and set up the crèche in a niche in the living room. It was complete, even the guiding star above the manger. Somehow, though, the fluffy white clouds were missing in the unpacking and this would never do. Onward and upward we hit at least three different stores until we found a supply of Angel Hair. What surprised me was that I thought angel hair, a spun fiberglass, had been outlawed and was a thing of Christmas Past like tinsel ice sickles. Remember how the perfectionists insisted each strand must be hung perfectly straight and one must never get caught tossing a handful up to the top of the tree.
That was one of many memories of the driven persistence Rosa had when her mind was so determined. Lost in my reminiscence of happier days, I could only hope and wish for a good measure of that drive she once had to return since she has found one can’t choose to die at will. Doubtless the time will come as it will for all of us and when it does, here is one of a host of friends that will recall Madame Rosa with the Angel Hair.
© 25 January 2016
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