First day of Spring and 100 degrees
The third day, in fact, of 100 degrees
The flowers are confused
The fuchsia hibiscus are bleached white
At the tips—the heat drained the powder-
Puff pink out of the tea roses too
There is a coral flowering something-or-other
Creeping over the wall from our northern neighbor
Begging the yellow podocarpus for shade
And receiving none
My mother signed her will two years ago today
In her last hospital bed smiling with her shaved
Stitched head bare. My best friend and hers
Were there to witness. It was a party.
A female doodle named Eliot dropped by
“Prayed” two paws up on my mother’s bedside
My mom belly laughed so hard, her needle bruised hand
Running through Eliot’s curly red hair, I swear
She almost popped a stitch. She told the story
Of the time we almost got arrested by the California
Fruit police on the way home from rescuing me from
“That slob in Oklahoma!” No one remembered that
But her. None of us doubted it. She was sharp. Topaz
Blue eyes shining bluer than blue. I wish
I had eyes like that. I wishI could remember that story
All of your stories, Mom, I wishYou could tell them again
And again, each sweltering Spring,
We could sit here in your house complaining
About the heat and the color fading from
Your bewildered flowers, missing you. Missing you.
-M. Ashley
M. N. Ashley 