#childhoodinmanhattan
Summertime on Broadway
in Spanish Harlem.
Wide sidewalks glinting
with mica, as I walked alone
up this hill in our neighborhood
for the very first time.
Flag Day, my parent's anniversary,
and a wish to give them flowers
I would buy all on my own.
Inside the hushed florist shop
the flowers and plants
seemed ready to interview
any potential new owners
who wished to take them home.
A dignified, kind woman,
spokesperson for their domain,
looked down at this earnest
little shrimp of a girl in a
striped T-shirt and shorts,
who wanted so much
to be taken seriously.
Respectfully, she opened heavy
glass doors where the roses slept
in orderly, long-stemmed rows.
Heady, chilled. Their fragrance
enveloped me, and still does.
I chose one red rose, and one yellow,
and the woman solemnly wrapped
them like a baby in swaddling clothes,
adding baby's breath and fern leaves.
Cradling my paper bundle, I walked on home.
Something deep inside of me had made that choice.
It felt as though the flowers knew what I wanted
to say to my cherished mother and father:
*That this life they were creating for us,
was abundantly full, and balanced.*
Time flew by, and one day I learned
from a holy and compassionate sage
that my heart had chosen an ancient
symbol for fullness of life:
Two flowers, one red,
one yellow, whispering
the secret of life
to the heart of a child
who wanted, more than anything,
to actually hear it,
who wanted to know,
above all else,
what was really real.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 8:25 PM UTC