Misting the Ferns for Keith

I once stood behind a woman
In the checkout line at Walmart.
In her hand she held a pathetic little flower.
The line was long, so I assume, out of boredom,
She turned to me and remarked,
If you wanna kill a flower, just give it to me.
From what I could tell, she didn't have far to go.
I knew how she felt, for flowers are doomed
When placed in my protective care.
There is, however, one exception to
My duty as the Grim Reaper of flowers; that is,
I could come close to winning next year's coveted
Title as President of The American Fern Society.
Of course, that's my opinion and pure hogwash.
But jesting aside, my ferns are pleasing to the eye.
And it's all because of my brother-in-law, Keith.
He had a fern I'll call a prize winner perched
Luxuriantly on a stand in his living room.
When I commented about its beauty, he simply
Added, Ferns like to be misted. Ever since then,
I water and mist my outside beauties every
Other day. And like all the other crazies who
Do it, I talk to them as well. Does it hurt?
Keith is gone now, but my ferns continue to thrive.
Whenever I care for them, I always think of him.
Is there something so simple that others will look at
When I'm gone and remember me?  I wonder.

©2015 By David Lee Thompson