When your daughter turns fifty
and travels to be with you to celebrate,
you may think it is all about her. You bake
a special cake, make the cream cheese icing
with orange zest that she loves. You wrap
her gift, happy to have found something special.
You look through your jewel box for an heirloom
timely, for her to receive.
 
Then you put flannel on the winter bed, set out
fresh towels, pick golden chrysanthemums
to put in her room. Bring out the photo you took
of her with her daughter, just after she was born.
Such a flurry of readiness, it’s hard to sleep.
And, admit it, you buy far too many groceries,
plan more meals than could possibly be eaten
in those few short days.
 
You wonder what to do first, then drive by the sea,
sit on the beach, stare past gentle waves into blue sky.
She tells you back home it is snowing. You linger.
And so the days will pass – afternoon in Chinatown,
wonton soup, lazy mornings in the upstairs den.
An ocean walk at sunset where you talk and laugh,
things suddenly funny.  She takes the photos now
and you don’t seem to mind.
 
When she leaves, when the door is closed,
when the house is too silent again, you clean
the fireplace hearth, trim wicks on candles,
wash coffee cups, polish crystal wine glasses.
No end of things to be done.
You carry the vase of yellow chrysanthemums
into the den, set them on the tray, bend down,
take in the scent – robust still, as all of time.
 
You spend the afternoon, then, remembering
and remembering. You start with the patch
of chrysanthemums you both planted
on the homestead, beside the eastern fence.
How he picked a handful of them, straggly
by November, brought them to the hospital
to see his first child. How these flowers have
bloomed – in every garden since.


© by Judith Heron.
Used with the author’s permission.