What are you doing for your mother on Mother’s Day? Mine usually gets flowers. It has been that way since she died in 1967.

Three years before my mother died, I became a member of Old West Chapter of the Order of DeMolay. It is a great organization for young men. One of the seven virtues contained in the ritual of DeMolay is filial love, or love of parents and family. Along with that is a public talk that is memorized and given when the new initiate becomes a member. It is called “The Flower Talk.”

One of the parts of the ritual is to have some red and some flowers placed on the altar that sits in the middle of the room near the open Bible that is also there. At the end of the talk, the young initiates first, and then all of the others, are to go to the altar and pick up a flower – a red flower if their mother is living and a white one if she has passed on.

I’ll never forget that first time I picked up a white flower. I did it, but only with tears in my eyes.

Not only is that memorized talk so beautiful, the actions of picking up the flowers are, too. And so telling in what each young man thinks of his mother. I get misty-eyed, thinking about that moment.

As I write this, my former wife, Kathie, is in the next room in a hospital bed. I’ve been giving her the pain medication she needs to keep her comfortable. Hospice checks a couple of times a day at this point. A few minutes ago, a member of her church was by, and I suspect the pastor will come a little later today.

The mother of a very good friend is also in the terminal stages of her battle with cancer. She is nearly 95 years old and still is a feisty lady.

I hate cancer. My friend hates cancer. Everyone hates cancer. What a horrible disease. It also took the life of my mother.

At least our grandchildren will have known their grandmother. Our sons are headed here to Kentucky soon. They visited when she could still talk and think a little better. The next trip will be a white flower trip. Both of them only knew one real grandparent. Kathie’s father was all they knew. He is still alive and kicking.

Before I came to Kentucky on this trip, I had been at Eternal Valley to pay my respects to my parents and other family members buried there. For the first time in years, I stood there sobbing. I do believe they are ready to greet Kathie when she leaves this mortal world. She’ll meet my folks for the first time. How cool is that?

This is a sad Mother’s Day for my family and for my friend’s family, too. We are sitting here waiting for the next moment, afraid they will pass too soon and at the same time worried that the suffering is too hard for them. To be in that bed, sleeping all day and night, with the passage of time marked by when she gets her pain medication, a drink of water and maybe some yogurt. That is how she is existing now. It just isn’t time for her to leave us yet, or maybe it is. Not our choice at this point.

My friend’s mother has leukemia and exists on blood transfusions. She is still full of sparkle, but even that is fading quickly. My mother would have been the same age this year. She was called far too early to the next horizon of life. I picked up that white flower far too young, too.

If there is one thing the Navy taught me, it is to wait. It seems that no matter what, we had to wait. Waiting on chow call. Waiting on shots. Waiting to get underway and waiting to return home. Waiting on payday and waiting on the next set of orders. Just plain waiting.

I’m tired of this waiting thing. I know the outcome of this, and the waiting is nearly too much. But if it is hard for me, I can only imagine how hard it is for her. I think she is ready.

If your mother is near and in good health, hug her for me and for all of us who no longer have our mothers in this life. My sons will have to learn how to celebrate Mother’s Day without a mom near. They will now join those of us who would pick up a white flower.

For those of you who can still pick up a red flower, know that she loves you, no matter what. Know that she cares more about you than she does herself. Know that she is the most amazing creature on Earth. She is your mother. Let her know you love her today and every day.

Enjoy today like none before. Enjoy her smile and laugh. Relish in the sound of her voice and in her arms as they hug you. Mothers are with us as long as we need them, and our memories of them last forever.

I just get to say, I love you, Mom. Forty-seven years have not dimmed my love or memory of you. Please welcome Kathie when she gets to be with you.

Darryl Manzer grew up in the Pico Canyon oil town of Mentryville in the 1960s and attended Hart High School. After a career in the U.S. Navy he returned to live in the Santa Clarita Valley. He can be reached at dmanzer@scvhistory.com and his commentaries, published on Tuesdays and Sundays, are archived at DManzer.com. Watch his walking tour of Mentryville [here].