The Second Year

I was born on a Sunday. You died on a Sunday. Coincidence can feel significant. That I was your kehinganda. I am. Some tenses still confuse me. You are not the past tense of being my mother. You are my mother. Tenses confuse me.

I planted two varieties of pentas under the window of the room where you slept: a vivid pink and a blush pink. They joined walking irises and lavender. A feast for the eyes and the nose. Perfume used to waft through the air, filling the house, and it could not last. I said it had done its work, given its love where it could. Where it should. And it should not persist where it was unloved. You will understand.

I have added gaura to the garden. That’s new this year. Poppies. Those are also new. I have plants from loved friends, grown from cuttings, shared with…