My Mother Died on Earth Day

We arrived five minutes late
to look into her dove-grey eyes
and whisper again
that she could let go.

A cloudy cool day,
yet I recalled how she worshiped
the sun, lathering with baby oil,
lying on a white cotton sheet
near our heirloom tomatoes.
And how she loved Sunday drives
down the back roads,
searching for hickory trees
and their fallen husks, then
cracking them open
for the sweet meat she’d stir
into fudge brownie batter.

I didn’t cry that day,
but I heard her screaming.
You sold my house?
Put me in this lousy dump?
What would your father
think of his perfect girls now?

No, crying came later,
two thousand miles away
while centering a vase
of daisies on the kitchen table.
See them smile? she used to say.
The way their tiny suns pop
when you enter the room?

When they faded, I replaced
the daisies with pink tulips,
each bell shape
turned toward the light,
each sturdy stem unwavering.

Published
San Francisco Writers Conference Anthology