Everyone gave them to my
mom, thought they were
perfect. Now, they line the

porch more than proud
as she was of them. Every
year, my mom skipping a step,

asking us outside for
tid bits and wine under
the umbrella. My dad does

not know where the cheese
shredder is or the egg pan
I am having trouble

getting up off the couch and not
crying. My mother said she
wanted to be buried by the

azalea bush and not in some
church graveyard. She had
a daughter by a man with

a name no one could pronounce.

We had these holiday plants
only blooming once a year
or so. Pink flowers–every

little circumstance is a triumph.
Pink flowers from a green cactus
jutting out like a new genesis.