Ilene Aune was born with a hole in her heart and lived with it until long after she married and was raising three daughters. Before having surgery, she told her daughters about the hole in her heart and that she was going to have an operation to fix it. They in turn told their friends. Ilene told me later that a concerned young friend of one of her daughters had asked her: “Mrs. Aune, can you love with a hole in your heart?”

I loved this story and encouraged Ilene to write it. She told me she thought she would write it as well as the story of her recovery from the surgery. But she never got around to doing that either. She was too busy expressing love. Not only did Ilene do more than anyone else I knew to welcome new faculty members and their families to Amherst and the philosophy department of the University of Massachusetts where both our husbands taught, but she also acted as activities director of a nursing home where she worked hard to bring as many interesting activities as she could to the residents. It seemed to me that she was always performing acts of kindness.

Ilene passed on many years ago, not from the hole in her heart, but from cancer. She was my friend and did many loving things for me over the years, but I want especially to share one story with you. In 1971 I had a psychotic episode. And though it was one of the most enlightening experiences of my life, it was also one of the most emotionally painful and frightening experiences as well. I was feeling my worst when Ilene visited me in a locked ward of what used to be known as Northampton State Hospital for the Insane. On her way to Boston to have the necessary open-heart surgery she stopped to bring me a dozen red roses.

We sat on the edge of my bed in the ward and talked. I tried to explain that somehow I had been given special power and was going to heal her so she wouldn't have to undergo surgery. But as I heard myself talking, I realized that what I was saying made no sense at all. I lowered my voice to a mumble before growing silent.

“What did you say?” Ilene asked, puzzled.

“Nothing,” I whispered, embarrassed.

I no longer remember how that awkward conversation ended, but I shall never forget Ilene's visit and how I longed to help her the way she helped so many others. It was many years after that day in the locked ward before I began to write poetry about my experiences in the State Hospital. But once I began to write, the following is one of the first poems I completed:

Roses
-for Ilene Aune

My friend brought a dozen red roses
to me in the locked ward. After she left
the nurse jerked the vase away and said crossly,
Patients aren't allowed glass.
Jaw locked in rage, I asked calmly,
Are patients allowed roses?
She glared at me.
Then handed me the roses, long stems
dripping in my hand.

I gave them to the women on the ward then-
one to the woman who begged for cigarettes, one
to the woman who intended to save the world.
One to the woman who paced the corridor,
her rapid turning like a snapping whip.

I gave one to the young woman who did nothing
but sit on the floor and rock.
I gave one to the woman who wept and wept.
Twelve roses for twelve women.
Not one turned down my gift.
Then one woman began to walk,
and the others followed,
single-file down the corridor.
They walked silently in that strange
parade of roses, each woman
with a rose like a torch
in her raised hand.

©Margaret Robison 1995, first published in The Disability Rag