on’t forget your promise,” I choked back tears and touched my mother’s brow, hoping she could still hear even though her heart had stopped. I pressed my cheek against the coarse, well-worn hospital garment that covered her shriveled chest. I had left her hospital bed two and a half hours ago, too exhausted from the day’s teaching job to stay longer even though her condition was deteriorating fast. Then I ate supper and started grading papers when the phone rang. “You better get down here,” the hushed voice of Mom’s sister trembled. “She ’s going.” Trying to hold back tears, I grabbed my car keys, raced through darkened empty streets, rushed through the hospital’s glass doors, jabbed a button on the elevator, and ran to a barren isolation room. My aunt stood by the bed staring in grief at Mom’s half-closed eyes and parted lips. “Is she …? ”But I already saw the answer in her sister’s eyes. She left the room, and I threw myself with complete abandonment on Mama. I couldn’t stop the waves of tears that shook my body. Finally, I calmed down, hugged her still warm body and whispered. “Don’t forget your promise. Don’t forget to let me know that you made it to the other side.”

My mind floated back to three months ago when my mother and I shared our usual Sunday lunch of cheese,crackers,and fruit.With each succeeding week,her 87-year-old body threatened to fold in on itself, the result of years with osteoporosis. Her skin was so translucent, she seemed already to have translated into spirit. When she tried to open a box of candy, her bone-thin arthritic fingers shook, but I resisted the urge to help. She needed that small bit of dignity that comes with the triumph of completing a task. The cardboard top gave up its fight, and Mother smiled weakly as she offered the chocolates I could never resist.

“I ’m ready to go, Shari,” she sighed. This wasn’t the first time she had said it. “The pain is more than the osteoporosis. It’s my stomach; I know there’s something wrong with my stomach. Please put me in the hospital.”

“I’ve tried, Mom. The doctor won’t do it.”

Her face crumpled. “Then let me die. Let me go home.” That was her name for heaven. It was how she felt about dying –she would be going home. Then she told me the story that led to the promise and my encounter with the beyond.

“I’ve never told this to anyone,” she started out. “Your sisters wouldn’t believe it, but I know you will.” I nodded in encouragement. “I can’t explain what happened except to say your father did it to let me know he loved me and was watching over me.” I held my breath.Mom’s eyes brightened with the memory.

“I have kept a pale blue chiffon nightgown in my dresser all these years because it was my favorite. Your father gave it to me 10 years ago on my birthday. That same evening we had an argument. I was drinking wine to help me sleep. But he upset me, and I spilled it down the front. He tried to help me wash out the stain. I wouldn’t let him because I was still angry. I don’t even remember what the fight was about now.” She laughed gently because anything more would create pain.

“I never did get the stain out,” she continued, “yet I kept the gown. Then, on the night of what would have been our 66th anniversary I dreamt that your father told me to look at it. When I woke up the next morning, I remembered the dream. I opened the drawer and pulled out the nightgown. The stain was no longer there.”

When she finished I could hardly swallow for the lump in my throat. I left the table to get a Kleenex, and that’s when the idea hit me.

“Mom!” I sat back down and gently touched her arm. “When you go, will you let me know if you reached the other side? Will you send me a sign if it’s at all possible?”

“I don ’t know if it’s possible,” her strong voice belied her weak body, “but I will certainly try.”

“Let’s make it specific,”I reached for her hand.“I want to be sure it is a message from you.Let ’s decide on a sign.”

I set myself to thinking.What would be a good symbol for Mom?A rose!She had grown roses until arthritis caught up with her.My father called her his “rose petal.”So it was decided that if Mother could get through to me when her spirit reached the other side she would let me know with a rose.

It occurred to me that maybe I was asking too much. After all,how could a solid object pass through one world to the next? Would I wake up one morning to find a rose beside my bed? Would a spirit transcend time and space to hand me a rose? I did not have to wait too much longer to wait for the answer.

hree months later Mom passed away in the hospital where they had indeed discovered she had a stomach problem. Unfortunately, her body and spirit were too worn out to withstand the operation and infections that followed.“Don ’t grieve for me,”were the last words she said to me.“I ’m going home.”It was her 14th day of fighting illness and I left,feeling uneasy,even knowing her sister would visit soon. Two and a half hours later,my phone rang,followed by my race to the hospital and the plea to Mom:“You made a promise to send me a sign.Don ’t forget.”

Fortunately,practical demands make the early days after a death go quickly. Wednesday and Thursday flew by as I notified relatives and finalized arrangements for her cremation at a local mortuary owned by Sammy Zipperer. The cremation would be Friday morning. The service would be Saturday.

By Friday, I had my head together enough to pick up papers that needed grading. I could do that,but I wasn ’t ready to face my high school students yet.On my desk in the teacher ’s work area stood a stunning floral arrangement of daffodils and tiger lilies set in a heavy glass vase. Since I had a few other items to carry out to my car,one of the teachers offered to carry the flowers,but I thought I could manage alone. I was halfway down the hall before I realized I had forgotten my keys. With a groan,I set the heavy vase on the floor.Then I noticed a student lounging against the entrance leading into the cafeteria and decided on impulse to ask his help in carrying the flowers, which were heavier than I had anticipated.

“Young man!” I called to him. He left his post and walked over.

“Would you mind taking these flowers to my car?” He smiled shyly, his teeth a dazzling white against the ebony of his slender face.

“Sure.” His voice was low and soft as velvet. Gracefully, he scooped the vase from the floor and waited while I rescued my keys.

He followed quietly as we headed for the parking lot. In a clumsy effort to make conversation, I chattered about my mother ’s death, the flowers, and the upcoming memorial service. When we approached the car, it occurred to me that the school gave awards for students who did good deeds. Certainly, this boy qualified.

“What is your name?” I asked more out of duty, than a need to know. “Sammy,” he answered, still grinning his lovely smile.

I reflected a minute on the coincidence. In two hours my mother would be cremated at a place owned by Sammy Zipperer. Opening the car door, I set my papers down. I knew I should ask his last name, but suddenly, the effort to make small talk seemed too much. However, out of politeness I forced myself to ask: “What ’s your last name?” He handed me the vase. I was setting it carefully on newspapers in the back seat when I heard his answer: “Rose.” Time stopped. I gasped. Raising my head and standing up, I stared at him. Then I tilted my head and looked up at a glorious unclouded sky. A smile rippled across my face. “Thank you, Mom!” I said softly. Turning to Sammy Rose, I hugged him. I shared my mother’s promise with him. He listened politely, a bemused grin on his face. Then he turned away from this “crazy lady,” walked back through the parking lot, trotted through grass, stepped over a curb, and opened the heavy entrance door. Still in a state of wonder, I stared at Sammy’s back until he disappeared into the brick building with its windowless classrooms. Before I folded myself into the confines of my car, I looked up again. “I’m glad you made it home, Mom.” Then I headed back to my “temporary ”home.

Roses continued to appear in my life for the next few days after the memorial service. Monday, I decided at the last minute to have my reading class take parts in a play from the issue of Scope that had just arrived. Imagine my delight when roses appeared in the climatic point of the story: the lead character hands yellow roses to the teenage girl he adores but who is dying of leukemia.

Roses didn’t stop there. Tuesday, a lovely slender black girl in my twelfth grade English class showed up in jeans with giant red roses embroidered on the sides and pockets. Wednesday, I moved my papers from my cubicle to a larger work area in our teacher’s prep room. I left for a few minutes to run an errand. When I returned I found a small bud vase with a single red rose had been placed in the center of the table. It is the one and only time that a coworker who grows roses brought any to school. I never shared my story of the promise with her because she would be the first to chalk it up to coincidence. Saturday I returned to Mom’s condominium to start the cleaning up. On top of the dresser in the extra bedroom lay three artificial roses I had never noticed before.

The sign of the rose disappeared from my life for the next six weeks until the afternoon that I closed the sale on her condo. That particular day, I took my classes to an outdoor art show where students displayed their ceramics, sketches, watercolors, and oils. For the most part, students draw cartoons. Occasionally there are landscapes, but rarely flowers.

So the oil painting of red and pink roses on a pale yellow background stood out not only for its content but its superior talent. And I couldn’t help but see that the background was the same vanilla color as the walls in Mother’s condominium.

Again, I knew my mother’s love and spirit were with me, congratulating me on the quick sale of her place. No profit, but no loss either. Everything we talked about over the past year had been taken care of smoothly and quickly. She always felt guilty that I would be left to clean up after her. But I didn ’t do it alone, Mom. You were with me every step of the way.

Oh –one more thing: I checked the data processing office for the file on Sammy Rose. He had entered our school six months earlier, a transfer from Jefferson High School near the Bronx in New York.My mother spent most of her life in Jefferson County in upstate New York.