In 1933, Gene Autry and Jimmy Long released the song: The Yellow Rose of Texas. In this song, the Rose represents Strength, Resilience, and a whole lot of Courage. The song tells the tale of Emily Morgan, who was the slave of a Texan commander. Johnny Lee and Lane Brody revived the song in 1984, and it became a number one hit.

Yellow roses are a universal symbol of friendship, joy, and happiness. It is also used to express gratitude, well wishes or to celebrate milestones and positive moments. All this, of course, is generally speaking.

As I am writing this, I have a vase of yellow rose buds on the coffee table. Colin was sent on a mission this past weekend, to find yellow roses. If the shop does not have yellow, can I buy pink ones, Colin asked. No Colin. If they do not have yellow roses, try the next shop. Colin came back with a lovely bunch of miniature yellow rose buds. They have now opened and look like little yellow stars. They are in my favourite Ngwenya vase.

Colin’s Mum was always very proud of the fact that she was close in age to the late Queen. She felt that because of that, it is almost as if they grew up together. I think it must have been that war. It created a generation of resilient people. Those that did not give up. To quote their war-time prime minister: Never, never, never, never give up. And they did not. Maya Angelou reminded us that when great trees fall, small things recoil into silence.

What then happens when a little tree falls over? We arrived home from Church last Sunday to the news that Colin’s Mum had passed on. It is never pleasant when these things happen. In lighter moments we elaborate that indeed she had died the way most of us hope to: of old age, peacefully in our own bed. But still, her little tree fell over, and it was very sad for those left behind. It left one sort of amid the planning that needs to happen, the urge to console, yet the peace of knowing we celebrate a life well lived.

A yellow rose will always remind me of my Mother-in-Law. Somehow, when I recollect my first memories of meeting her, what comes to mind is the yellow rose bud she would often have beside her bed. Whenever she visited us from first England, and later Scotland, I would always make sure to have a bunch of yellow roses for her in her bedroom. Yellow roses will always remind me of Annie. That of course was not her real name, but there was no way our boys could twist their little tongues around the word Granny. So, Annie it was.

Chatting to Colin’s younger sister, she had a mountain hike with friends planned when the call came. Wisely, she decided to go walking anyway. She took some lovely photos on her walk. Send me one for my Cape Crawl, I asked. It was a bit of a tall order finding yellow roses, but she obliged with yellow daffodils. It came with an explanation that involved her performing, depending on the decade in which you were born, either acrobatics, gymnastics, or Pilates. Either way, it resulted in her getting her socks wet in the process. It was worth it. A good way to honour Annie. That and a very special piece of music.

The bag pipes, someone once told me, resonate with your soul. In listening to them, you should not use your ears, but rather your emotions. It is said that the music of the bagpipes is the only sound heard in Heaven, with the piper leading the departed to the hereafter.

As I am writing this, there is a tune playing in my mind. It is called Highland Cathedral. Should you shut your eyes and look carefully with your soul, you will spot the piper walking over a hill, behind him, a woman with a yellow rose in her hand. I believe that He is leading her home.