Daffodils marched around the box where she lay. Daffodils climbed a makeshift trellis. Daffodil yellow spilled out of wicker. Daffodils crossed and curved into hearts. Their pollen yellowed the dust the preacher kept saying she was going back to. Daffodils have no smell whispered. In the backwater church where she lay not moving or saying a word about the awful pink dress, daffodil musk mixed with five-and-dime perfume, hair grease and the salt from tears. Too much wood and rows of dusted-off hats. Irises were from a neighbor's yard. More blue than purple. She liked purple best. And me. The big rose spray with all the white stuff the woman she ironed and scrubbed for sent. Her mother worked for the woman. Her mother like a mother to me. Her sobs hurt my eyes. No way out I could see. Child moves wrong, people see. Only time. Her mother saw the good in us. Pretended I, too, was the apple of her eye. Now she was bent. Tears were adding dots to the dots where daisies once splashed her mended, mismatched skirt. What an ugly casket, someone said at the viewing. Girl lighted up a room, let me tell you. Good who die. The Sickness had pitted her skin. So pale.
Whoever was in the box was smooth as cream. Someone painted her orange. Pink and orange clash with yellow, wood-brown and air grey with steam. Too early to be this hot. River carries in the smell of fish. Only 21, only 21, only 21, buzzes fly-like behind fans with Jesus on one side, rules on the other. No one told me you could die. Sudden trip back for a funeral. Whose? I asked. Hurry, Mother said. Have to wear your Easter outfit. On the bed. Keep it clean and carry the purse I bought. Get going. I forgot the purse was on the pew. Yelped because it hurt when I sat. Long ride back. My nose was stuffed up and I couldn't breathe. Fever hit that night. Tonsils, the doctor said. Have to yank 'em. Say it is pollen now.
For Patty and Mouse (c) Phyllis Jean Green, Summer, 2006 All Rights Reserved
I feel quite at a loss for words, Pea so I shall simply echo the sentiments of those who have commented before me. Thank you for sharing this offering. Love and peace to you,
Fantastic write Pea, how sublimly beautifully you convey the imagery of such a sad event. A really cracking (that's good in England lol) piece of work.
EVERY SPRING PASSES captures not just the flow of events and qualities that comprise a life but the sublty magical environment of nuances that give individual existences so much meaning beyond the boundaries of Self. Stunning work Ma'am.
Aberjhani
You are truly gifted, Pea. From daffodils to the choice of dress -- choice of colors, to realization of death, this poem is packed with emotion and visions of a painful event. You haven't set one wrong foot on this one.
This is fantastic...the characters are alive...the memories of a confused child so apparent as she is shuffled in between preparation, sadness and the tangible realities of death. This one is just filled with coloquial imagery at it's best.
Taylor~
Pea
I have read this three times, and it is utterly tinged with sadness and contemplative reflection...
Only the good die young..
You are so unique in your inimitable style
Love
Peter
This is quite an image rich poem, Pea, I felt as though I was standing next to you watching it all unfold from behind a sheer gray curtain, squinting my eyes to see just a little more clearly. Wonderful write!
Take care,
Sherry
Join me as we travel together on the road called "Aging." I will be sharing my personal experiences with you and offer ideas on how we can better navigate the complex byways of our older years. Grief, healing, generations, ancestors, and more.
For a time, I perched myself on a flat rock, comparing my life with the Guyandotte River. Just as its tributaries replenish it daily, changing it in some small—sometimes great—degree, so have the day-to-day occurrences of life changed me. Like the ri
B&R
Regis
Paul;-)
aka Sparky
Aberjhani
Carmen :-)
Taylor~
Love Tinka
(((HUGS))) and love, Karla. :(
I have read this three times, and it is utterly tinged with sadness and contemplative reflection...
Only the good die young..
You are so unique in your inimitable style
Love
Peter
Take care,
Sherry