Sunday, May 8, 2016

My Mother Was

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

My mother was the purple iris,
sometimes a peony, but never
the carnation. My mother was
red lipstick and a big, bright smile
that sometimes lied about how
much she loved her life. She counted
her burdens and could recite them
with ease, but she said that you
could make things better with a bag
of peanut M&Ms. Green ones, especially.
You don’t forget, not all of it.

But when you bury someone
in a blue ceramic jar
near the old boxwoods
and walk away,
things start to become
hard to remember.

I don’t know the meaning of life.
But, maybe, it is simply to take notice.

© 2016-2018/Jamie K. Reaser
From "Conversations with Mary"
To be published by Talking Waters Press

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