On it, there would be the picture from the day
on which you held my hands around
the box of soaps wrapped in pink paper
with bouquets of gardenias floating on it.
It was Mother’s Day and you wanted
to honor your daughter by having me
hand the box of scented soaps to my mother.
 
I held onto the box—the shimmering
design of floating gardenia blossoms
on the paper speaking of mysteries.
The gardenia scent I would associate
with you from that day on, lingering
in the air I breathed deeper.
 
And as I now look at the only picture
ever taken of you, I wonder, what were
you thinking? Not the day when I
was only four years old and you whispered
my name, inviting me to take part in your
plot, but during the taking of the picture
I now stare at, the one where your face
survives with a downcast look in your eyes
and a smile that doesn’t quite flourish
in your lips, your long, black, straight
hair held in a bun at the back of your head.
 
The one in which I can now study
your high cheek bones, a feature inherited
by several members of our family.
 
That Mother’s Day when you encouraged me
to hand the box of scented soaps to my mother
I said, “Pink”, that Sunday when I was still
more interested in the exterior of the box
than in what was inside it.
 
The journal entry for the page
would have probably read,
“Today my granddaughter
discovered color.”

© by Nydia Rojas.
Used with the author’s permission.