A Garden of Memory

Morning comes

without her.

No song from the kitchen,

no sound of the kettle

only the garden,

wild with weeds,

waiting.

The roses bow

beneath their own weight.

I follow her path

through the wet grass,

placing my feet

where hers have been,

and the earth gives back

the weight of her footstep,

still there.

Her brass thimble

lies beside the sewing chair,

the threads she never finished

like tangled questions

I never had the chance

to ask.

A photograph she kept hidden

folded twice,

tucked behind her Bible

her younger self in another dress,

before the revolution

came looking for her.

When they came to question her,

she was in the garden.

She did not hurry inside.

She wiped her hands on her apron,

placed seeds in my palm

warm, unhurried

and walked toward the door

as if she had been

waiting for them for years.

“They can take the streets.”

I remember this, later

by the window,

watching them go.

When I was afraid,

she called me

“my little seed.”

Now I light a candle

in the room where she slept.

The flame trembles

small and steady

like her voice

calling my name

after everyone had gone.

Spring will come.

The roses will bloom again.

And somewhere in the turning

of the earth,

in the stubborn mint

that returns every time

where no one planted it

I place my hand in the soil

and know where to go.