In 1945. Sixty –six years later my mother carried
Bunches of fresh, bright freesias to my father’s
Grave in Oroville.
He had aspired to be a farmer all his life. In his old age,
He pulled himself up for a loving act of cultivation
Sowing a dozen bulbs under
the bedroom window
Where they both still slept
Together as they had for most of
sixty years.
Soon, his memory of any of their time withered
And though he was
moved away, the bulbs stayed
Lost in Dad’s past dream.
He had told no one why he
planted them there. Mom
Had forgotten about them as they lay dormant
In Natomas’
black soil even as his own memory
Quietly slipped away
With no trace of colors.
The freesias waited for light,
Then exactly one year after my father died, not a
few
Robust pioneers burst through the Natomas' crust sharing
Love's persistence.
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