Dec 2021
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.
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.
