Remembrance

I remember my mother

on her deathbed,

almost mute

until a nurse came in

and said cheerily, 'Isn't it nice

that your daughter's here?'

(I'd flown a long way

to be with her

that final day.)

'What's your daughter's name?'

she asked, and after Mum forced out 

the answer in a strangled gasp,

'Was it a family name

or did you call her that

just because you liked it?'

I remember my mother's voice

going deep, as it did when she tried

to enunciate very clearly,

and with an obvious summoning

of strength and will and breath, she said,

syllable by syllable, 'I liked it!'

I remembered the fuller tale I'd heard

of an actress with the pretty name,

and Mum deciding then:

'That's the one, if I'm having a girl.'

I don't think God

would have dared disappoint her.

I remember being told often

how much she wanted

'a little fair girl', and the tale

of her first words to my father

after I was born, 'Oh, Rob'

(tearful with joy) 'It's a girl!'

Some children hate their names.

I always liked mine, even when

everyone called me Rose or Rosie.

I remember how pleased

my mother was, when Bill,

my second husband, said,

'She has a beautiful name.

People should use it' and insisted

no-one ever shorten it again.

Later the famous clairvoyant

told me, 'Never let anyone

shorten your name to Rose.

'That is soft; it will weaken you.

You need the Mary for strength.'

It was already done. I thanked Bill again.

I remember the children at school:

'You're a plant, you're a plant!'

But I didn't mind; I was proud of it.

I like what Shakespeare said,

through Ophelia: '... Rosemary,

that's for remembrance.'

I like being named for a herb

with a unique sharp-sweet scent.

I like to keep some growing.

Prompt 20 for 'Poems in April' at 'imaginary garden with real toads' is to explore the meaning of one's name.