Upon my kitchen table stands a China pitcher,
masterfully engraved with miniature blue murals of vines and ivy.
Standing for years I cannot recall,
it quenches the thirst of beings before and beyond me:
flowers.

My mother found her green thumb when she lost herself within a lonely home.
Hydrangeas atop the tables,
Peonies lining accidentally-shelved surfaces,
Money trees granting the fortunes my parents prayed for on the nightstand,
Flowers became my mother's family when my father's work consumed him so often as he did the meals laid out on the table by her and when I had sought the interest of other homes.

The China pitcher was reserved for the prettiest flowers
and never allowed the roots of roses to feel its bottom.
"Roses," my mother sometimes told me, "wilt too quickly";
"They don't like to live very long once they are picked."

With my mother's word as law,
the pitcher held water for flowers not yet ready to bloom,
and in the morning --
the one, beautiful morning --
clumps of vibrant chrysanthemum and mighty marigolds hugged the edges of their confines as they basked in fresh life together.
Together, with us.

In the fall, petals danced around our steps as they wilted and we watched sorrowfully.

Reds, as vigorous as the blood flowing through veins,
Yellows, as serene and joyful as the neighboring wind spreading life, painted the horizon and watched back.

Winter had turned our home cold.
The garden shivered as it stood hopelessly in front of a familiar fate,
The green thumb my mother wielded lost its color to the washing frost,
and the China pitcher stood empty.

It was when the house became too cold and dark that roses felt the bottom of the pitcher.
Unlike the beauty of their blossoming cousins,
roses were true and plentiful.
With as much optimism as our hearts held,
my mother and I put roses in the pitcher.

Alas, on the first day they became family, the head of a lone rose was given up by its thorned neck,
and the satisfaction of assurance did not follow.

"With enough water, it might stand to see another day," my mother pled.

Large enough to fit only a teacup, the lone flower atop my windowsill became an altar for all that stood beautifully throughout the house.
In full view of a taunting moon and a shying sun,
the rose had slept as I did,
breathed as I did,
lived as I did.

At winter's passing, the rose head stood.
Faintly grey, it clung to life fiercely.
Hydrangeas,
Peonies,
Money trees,
no flower stood as that rose did.

The China pitcher, aging with the seasons, holds more flowers now than once before.
The house did not grow lonelier;
rather, it grew eager to nurture more life.

Every now and then, I see my mother walking through the door with a bag of flowers.
Every now and then, she brings home roses
that I am grateful to see.

My mother hugged me today, just like any other day.
She always asks for her 20 seconds,
and she always draws her head to the left side of my chest where she can feel a pulse that compliments hers.

Sometimes I hold my breath though,
to see for myself what is so captivating about the monotonous thumping of my heart,
and she pulls away,
revolts,
against the now arrhythmic stranger clasping her.

I've never seen my mother hug anyone else,
never like she did when she needed those 20 seconds.
Instead, she let her fingers hug the butts of her Virginia slims and her palms hug the base of her Chardonnay glass.
Her hands proved too far, perhaps,
As her heart remained unlit.

The house was scarcely empty, but it always felt like she was alone.
The man who she had chosen to be her partner was always around,
Loving her and showering her with gifts,
But ne'er did I see my mother be held to his heart like she was to mine.

A mother's hug is what I call it.
A hug not of a mother, but a hug for her; a hug belonging to her.
Not of selfishness, her arms reigned, but of love.
Those 20 seconds never seemed more than just 20 seconds;
never until they became mine.

In time and impudence, my arms grew heavy to lift; my heart unbothered.
My mother's didn't, but her eyes wore a shade of glass, and
her arms quietly reached out through her shamefully shielded breast.

"Cartier Independence,"
stationed behind the bathroom mirror,
lying in the glovebox of the car;
my father always found his way to it.
Along with the stench of smoldering incense when he recited his morning prayer,
his cologne lingered.

Sometimes I put on my father's cologne, and I cloak myself in his ragged musk.
It's not me.
I'm missing the depth of the cigarettes behind the glorious mountain fronted on his usual pack of Seneca Blue 100's;
I'm missing the sharp burn of the ***** which often comes in bottles;
I'm missing the tender rigidity of his calloused and gold-decorated hands.

I still wear it, though.
I still look in the mirror, watching us, and let my fingers press down on the nozzle of the cologne.

Do I deserve his scent?
Do I want it?

Do I deserve the comparison to him--
the same face,
same eyes,
same life?

Do I want it?

After years, my mother's gift from my father stands still,
buried under samples of Eau De Toilette.
He waits for my fingers to again press down and bask in acceptance.
He knows I will;

I want to use my own cologne,
but it all seems too childish -- too meaningless.

Tonight, along with the speckles of dust resting on the nozzle and the prints of my fingers,
I will smell of him,
talk of him,
think of him,
but I will wear my own cologne:
"Cartier Independence."