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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