Perennials
1.
Mother’s dementia forced the sale. I did what I could.
We all did. The nurses, the delivered groceries,
the reminder notes taped to the fridge, Johnny
hacking back the roses from the front walk,
careful not to disturb her precious tulips.
The house was frozen in time: Small grubby
handprints ran up doors; green 70’s shag
held the footprints of once fashionable furniture.
Knick-knacks sprawled on every surface; stained
wallpaper remembered of a plate collection's profile.
The back garden grew wild, littered with plastic pots
upturned among the intermingling weeds and
floral gems. Empty hanging baskets
clung crookedly to hooks in the masonry.
With car full, I shut the gate for the last time.
2.
In the spring, I took her a gift: 10 red tulips
and 2 yellow ones fanning out at her bedside.
She smiled, remembered, like she did
the words to Amazing Grace, though
she could not recall my name.
She drifted into lucid memory, marvelling
once more at the multiplication of flowers
crowding the front borders – all sprung
from a few bulbs. For a week, she asked
the aide a dozen times a day
if the water had been changed.
3.
In her home, a daughter and mother
shared the surprise she’d left behind – her gift
of a dozen dozen red tulips, studded with yellow –
standing tall and translucent in the sunshine
along the front walk, as big as a child’s hand,
waving in the breeze, soaking up the spring rain.
Appeared in Acumen, 75, January 2013
© Kathleen M Quinlan
1.
Mother’s dementia forced the sale. I did what I could.
We all did. The nurses, the delivered groceries,
the reminder notes taped to the fridge, Johnny
hacking back the roses from the front walk,
careful not to disturb her precious tulips.
The house was frozen in time: Small grubby
handprints ran up doors; green 70’s shag
held the footprints of once fashionable furniture.
Knick-knacks sprawled on every surface; stained
wallpaper remembered of a plate collection's profile.
The back garden grew wild, littered with plastic pots
upturned among the intermingling weeds and
floral gems. Empty hanging baskets
clung crookedly to hooks in the masonry.
With car full, I shut the gate for the last time.
2.
In the spring, I took her a gift: 10 red tulips
and 2 yellow ones fanning out at her bedside.
She smiled, remembered, like she did
the words to Amazing Grace, though
she could not recall my name.
She drifted into lucid memory, marvelling
once more at the multiplication of flowers
crowding the front borders – all sprung
from a few bulbs. For a week, she asked
the aide a dozen times a day
if the water had been changed.
3.
In her home, a daughter and mother
shared the surprise she’d left behind – her gift
of a dozen dozen red tulips, studded with yellow –
standing tall and translucent in the sunshine
along the front walk, as big as a child’s hand,
waving in the breeze, soaking up the spring rain.
Appeared in Acumen, 75, January 2013
© Kathleen M Quinlan