Two years already...
She slips into my consciousness from nowhere. Electric impulses in flutters, like the steady beat of a hummingbird wrestling with the sky. As I wrestle the want to smell her nectar scented skin.
She used to sip blueberries and cream like rain water. Her pleasure-filled face tilted back just enough, to convince me that never has there been a greater marriage. Except, perhaps, for the aroma of honey suckle slapping my senses with each turn of the merry-go-round. She would step back and wave after giving it a good push. Swirling like leaves in a honey kissed tea cup -- bliss like blueberries and cream, we would debate.
She taught me appreciation, the art of sipping café oles, when to pick bananas from their tree and how to check out vinyl audio books from the public library. I now have:
her turn table,
a tiny teacup and saucer in which she served me milked-down coffee,
her engagement ring,
a pillow case from her linen closet,
her old sunglasses,
one of her hair combs
and
her love of fresh flowers.
When I have dreams of her, I hug her and ask, “What are you doing here? I thought you were dead.” She shrugs her shoulders and we hug some more. And then we do something ironically ominous, like water the plants.
She loved irises and yellow roses and whatever would call to the birds. She could make anything grow, like laughter. My father gave me a cala lily for my birthday. I’m terrible at keeping anything of the earth alive. I am hoping that every once in a while, she visits the lilies instead of my dreams.