February Remembers
Not oneFebruary,
but two Februaries.
First one, then another passes;
parents.
Some months
go unnoticed
heavy heart sinks soft behind mine;
My mother never wanted a headstone, but we put one down after my father passed (see below). Unfortunately, they engraved 1986 instead of 1976.
Romance to the Bitter End
My mother has no headstone. It was her last wish, and we obeyed. If she could see past the lavender satin and cherry mahogany wood of her coffin, roots would entwine her line of vision, spinning a web of life from the rose bushes planted above her.
cemetery plots
dot hills of green with white t's
mother has no cross
Before she heeded the angels' plea, she spent her days among tea roses which lined our walk. My father swore his coffee grounds gave her roses the much envied aroma of the neighborhood. Every morning, he'd carefully bury the remains of his dark roast beneath the already rich soil. My mother swore at the sight, protesting it was her banana peels which made her roses yawn at dawn and pray to the sun. She'd place the yellow face of Chiquita around the base of each bush like a Band-Aid; a sight which would cause my father to erupt with the laughter of an amused child.
blood-red black roses
rich as roasted espresso
sweet as bananas
On the 17th anniversary of my mother's death, my father planted the 17th rose bush above her coffin. On his knees in the bitter cold, thorns biting my father's hardened hands, he dug a hole deep enough to reach his heaven. He packed the soil with Italian roast and covered the roots with strips of bananas. And, there, like a wilted rose, he curled up and died, face to face with my mother.
this garden is full
it's time to come home to you
bitter sweetness blooms
