Mother
My mind wanders back to childhood when you gave me my first
plant, a hibiscus. I planted it in the sun so it would bloom toward
heaven. Our love is a flower pressed between the pages of yesterday
and today.
I can feel the nubby weave of fabric used to make my red jumper
on your Singer sewing machine, we picked out the pattern together.
I remember the smell of freshly washed sheets drying in the sun,
till the rain came and we rushed to take them inside. Memories of
picking purple azaleas to float in water.
You planted tall, yellow foxgloves that bloomed all summer.
The sprinkler squeaked as I danced under it. We sipped iced tea
sitting under the oak trees as I heard stories about my grandparents
and life growing up on a farm. Memories of a childhood in full bloom.
Years pass; pressed flowers are fragile.
