- Vol. 04
- Chapter 05
“For hands that do dishes, to be as soft as your face”
My Mother’s Day roses blossom in my hands. They are such an exquisite pink – I see my mother’s face looking at me through the translucent petals.
I carry them carefully, they peep out shyly from my bag. Curious, vivacious ever smiling – slightly fragile. They are the sum of her parts – dainty yet strong.
They are the embodiment of her charm. They speak volumes of her love and care. They are her – pretty, vital, loyal and joyful.
The air is changing but the wind bites sharply, because Spring is child-like and needs protecting. But the sun shines and tempers the clouds maternally.
I arrange those perfect roses on my parents' grave. Stretching my hand out to make contact. And feel their hands one steadfast – one delicate.
I am simply a child again – holding on for dear life.