I was in high school when my best friend's father died. "You have to go see her," folks told me. But I was afraid that I wouldn't know what to say to her. I might even say something wrong that would make matters worse. But others insisted and I went. I tried to comfort her, but I knew that no one could take away her pain.

I distinctly remember the day my mother received the phone call telling her that her mother had died. As a little kid, raised in the Christian faith, I couldn't understand why she would be so upset about her mother finally getting to go to heaven. Only when the following Thanksgiving and Christmas came did I finally "get it." Grandma might be in a better place, but wherever that was, it wasn't with us.

I also remember the first Mother's Day after Grandmother died. As we got ready for church that Sunday, mother gave each of us our traditional red rose buds to pin on our Sunday outfits. Then, she pinned a white rose onto her dress. She explained to me that when your mother is dead, you can no longer wear a red rose. From that day forward, you must always wear a white rose on Mother's Day. I remember checking my red rose most of that Sunday to be sure it was still safely pinned to my jacket.

For the past many years, mother suffered terribly from the ravages of dementia. She rarely knew who I was. When I showed up to her house with food, she thought I was a caterer. When I played "Danny Boy" on the harp for her, her face lit up with joy. Of all the hymns and songs I had played for her that day, "Danny Boy" was the only one she recognized. Although she no longer knew me, I took comfort in the fact that she always knew my father. She never forgot her soul mate.

At the end of February, the phone rang and, checking the caller ID, I realized that "the Home" was calling. My mother's heart had given out. In the following days and weeks, friends tried to console me. She had been sick and in pain for a long time. Surely it was a relief that she was no longer suffering. These and other comments were logical but totally irrelevant.

The extent of the damage came home on Mother's Day. As I tried to grasp hold of some sane thought that day, my mind kept going back to white roses.

I had not planned to go to church that Sunday. I had nowhere to go wearing a white rose and, as far as I knew, there was nowhere on Sunday to find one. But late Sunday afternoon, at Michael's Arts and Crafts Store, I purchased a white rose and took it home. Unlike my mother's rose, mine doesn't smell very good. But unlike my mother's, mine will be around for as long as I want it.

After my mother's death, my father complained to me about the things people were saying to him in an effort to make him feel better. He didn't want to hear that Mother was "in a better place." Or that she had "gone to be with the Lord." I asked him what he did want to hear.

"Just that they love me and that they're sorry," he replied.

I would have to agree. Like my Dad, those were the two things I most wanted to hear. So, the next time a friend "loses" a loved one and you are feeling awkward about what to say, you might try Dad's advice. Of course, if you are one of those folks who have "lost" someone you love, you already know that.