Pamela Hirte

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.