by
Consummate storyteller, Lorina Stephens, returns with a novel of grief and the power of forgiveness. There is a conversation that should have happened between Vi Cotter and her mother. Now it’s too late. But sometimes the dead speak through the legacy they leave, and in this case Vi’s mother bequeaths her, among other things, her journals. Do we sometimes seek absolution from the grave? Do we seek reconciliation between the child, the woman, the crone? In a story of unspoken truths and hidden fears, The Rose Guardian explores the cages we make when we fail to unlock our secrets.
I realize now innocence, once lost, can never be retrieved. We yearn. We search. But that search is vain; only the vestiges of what we once had remains.
It was of innocence I thought as the officiant droned on. He spoke of a woman he didn’t know. He attempted to convince those of us gathered in that sombre and neutrally appointed room Una Cotter was someone to be remembered, a vital part of her community, loving mother, devoted wife. There was no denying she was all that.
Una Cotter, descended from Norman conquerors. Or so she liked to say.
I remembered a woman I both loved and feared. There was little of softness about Ma. Estranged, widowed, hardened by experience, she was as capricious as Canadian weather. The only thing on which you could depend was in her winter, it was bitter. In her summer, it was glorious.
READ MOREWhite Cotter roses bookended the funereal urn of plain, penny-wise stoneware; a digital display on the wall above, sequencing through images of Ma from femme fatale to fatal crone. She died so very small, coiling into herself as though gathering all her effort for one final, full-colour explosion.
I had few illusions I would escape the repercussions of that explosion, like thunder in the heart, or the tsunami after the quake. For now, there was this calm. I should feel something, I told myself. Surely this marked some sort of personal shortcoming that I couldn’t squeeze out even one tear. As a woman of age, had I become as impenetrable as Ma?
Finally, a pause in that fabrication from the lectern, and in that space a song about time to say goodbye, meant I was sure to elicit profound weeping from the host of mourners. Ma was like that. I didn’t know whether to laugh or rage, to feel fondness or scorn. How was I supposed to feel after all these years, after all this history?
I could hear someone cough, the rustle of cloth as bums shifted on padded seats, the breathing of so many people who had come to mark the death of this enigmatic woman. I stared at my knees where black silk noile draped down to touch the tops of my black leather flats. I wanted to shift my own bum, rid myself of the casing of spandex designed to make the Rubenesque feel svelte. Or at the least acceptable. Dear god I was getting too old for this.
I wondered vaguely if they’d stuffed Ma into spandex underneath her funerary garb. Or had they simply taken her to the crematorium and incinerated her, gardening clothes, gloves, and all?
COLLAPSELibraryThing wrote:'Lorina Stephens paints a multi-layered canvas of loss and release, of denial and self-examination, of blame and understanding. The portraiture that emerges as each layer is laid down is a complex and nuanced examination of three generations of women…."
"This is both a powerful and moving story that is told with sensitivity and heart. Masterfully crafted, this book is well worth reading. Highly recommended."
