Rosalyn Arnett: The difficult legacy of a mother's love
As family, friends, community members, and classmates gathered to celebrate and honor my mother, Rosalyn “Ros” Arnett, I began to realize just how numb I had been. As her youngest child, no matter what my résumé said or how much I tried to prepare, nothing could have truly readied me for a moment that had been a long time coming.
Rosalyn was more than just a devoted mother—she was a cherished daughter, a beloved grandmother, a compassionate sister, a nurturing aunt, and an unwavering friend. She wore many hats, but the common thread through them all was love. She embraced her eternal journey on February 7, 2022, after a courageous battle with cancer, one that revealed the depths of her strength and resilience. We laid her to rest on Valentine’s Day—a fitting farewell for a woman who could unexpectedly steal your heart.
She left behind a legacy of kindness, service, and fierce compassion, though not in a way that would ever fit neatly on a job application. While her physical presence may have departed, her spirit remains, woven into the lives of those she touched. A lifelong member of St. Stephen United Methodist Church, Rosalyn was deeply engaged in the United Methodist Women, advocating passionately for equity, political candidates, and individuals with disabilities. She never met a stranger, always greeting the world with open arms and a giving heart. Whether through her volunteer work, her support of grieving families, or her undeniable gift for cooking, she found ways to make people feel cared for. I used to tease her about how much she loved funerals, but now I understand—it was never about death; it was about showing up for people when they needed it most.
Rosalyn poured her heart into everything she did. From Cardinal Steel Drum and Edgewood Industries to school cafeterias and over a decade at Southern Lunch, she made sure no one ever left her table hungry—physically or emotionally. She had a way of turning meals into moments, and her family and former coworkers honored her memory by gathering at Southern Lunch after her service, sharing stories over the kind of food that felt like home.
She found joy in the simplest things—dancing, live music of any kind, a leisurely stroll, and the smell of something sweet baking in the oven.
Through it all, my sister was by her side, ensuring she received the loving care she deserved, along with the support of Carolina Senior Care, PACE, Accordance Health, and eventually the nurses of Hospice of Davidson County. Even as her body grew weary, her spirit never dimmed.
She loved being around people so much that I could hardly imagine how much peace she must have found when my sister and I finally let go of our selfish desire to keep her here. As heartbreaking as it was, it was the most loving thing we could do for her. And yet, in her final journey, she was so radiant—so full of grace—that many didn’t even realize how frail she had become. We’re told it’s a common response.
We sent her off in a horse-drawn carriage down Main Street, surrounded by an outpouring of love from every direction—her family, her classmates, her beloved Southern Lunch family, and even my partner at the time. My only regret was that she wasn’t there to witness the celebration of her life. Finally, people spoke about her with the fierce admiration and love I had come to know so deeply in my adult years.
We buried her on Valentine’s Day, dressed in red, the color of love. She adored Valentine’s Day. When we were children, she would buy my sister and me matching pajamas, Welch’s grape juice, and candy. Even when she was in the nursing home, she found a way to continue the tradition, saving up “store money” through rehabilitation therapy just to make sure we still felt special.
Every year, as I reflect on her legacy of love, I realize that she was not always easy to understand. Loving her meant learning to embrace her strength, her fire, and her deep devotion in ways that weren’t always obvious in the moment. I was always the more awkwardly sensitive one in our family, and after the service, Dr. Beverly gave me a warning. She had seen it before—one day, she said, the weight of it all would break through. I believed her, but I had no idea how deeply Valentine’s Day would change for me. My body seems to know before my mind does, and as the day approaches, I feel the absence of her in ways I never could have imagined.
The team at HOSPICE gave us literature that read:
"When a loved one has died, holidays, anniversaries, and birthdays inevitably bring fresh memories and a re-experience of the pain of grief. The void appears again. If the death is recent, you might feel numb much of this holiday season, but next year’s holidays may send a new wave of grief your way."
And after all these years of trying to fill the space with fancy dates, vacations, or distractions, I think this is the first year that all I want is to walk in her shoes—to embrace a love that was, at times, complicated but always unwavering. Like most stories, I will continue telling them until I feel “less numb.”
I hope you have a beautiful Valentine’s Day. And if you can, take a moment to honor the ones who loved you fiercely, in their own imperfect, extraordinary way.
