Making red dirt tracks
builds up an appetite
for sliced tomatoes
and whatever else
grew fresh from her garden.
Flowers picked,
and our bellies full,
our tradition was that she would invite me to sit beside her
at the piano.
The day we walked beneath the crepe myrtles,
I did not know it would be our last time walking together
in her garden.
And walking through the fading azaleas,
I did not know then
that I could never
arrive earlier next year,
as I always reassured
myself that I would.
So many times
the conversation
turned to this season’s
peaches.
I asked her,
“have you had any good peaches this summer?”
She said, “oh, it has been so wonderful.”
As peach season ended,
so too did our season
together.
Her Steinway sat
silent in the living room.
By fall, I would think
of Thanksgiving
and long for the happy annoyance
of too much family
to visit.
Come Christmas,
no piano played along
and the hymns stuck
in my throat.
Near my birthday,
in January,
I would check the mailbox again and again,
missing something.
And then I would learn
that grief
is the card
that never comes
from someone who
never forgot to write.
I visited,
in winter
and saw you
on a far off hill,
but as the sun set
I could not catch you.
I visited again
in spring,
when the dogwoods
opened their white
blooms.
We did not talk
as we so often had
of flowers,
but I thought of all
the questions I had
not asked.
I thought their names as I passed by
silently:
Cornus florida,
Cornus kousa,
Cornus controversa
and found you,
in the way you
must have
lovingly pruned
each azalea,
their blooms vibrant
and glorious.
I did not visit again.
But come Peach season,
I did find you,
glorious.
In a place you loved,
a place made of stone
and music.
I found you
singing glory
in a hymn
lifted up by a choir
800 voices strong.
I heard you playing
Glory to God
on the organ
and suddenly
it is summer.
And suddenly
there are peaches.
And grandma,
they are wonderful.
