Remnants of Pink

By Barb Kelly from her collection Leave-Taking published by Cactus Press

I used to rock you to Me and Bobby McGee.

Those windshield wipers have been slapping time,

and why, oh why,

on a stroll on an August day,

do we lose our way? I mention

your hair, the ends.

Really? A rigid smile.

We kick the stones

aside and simmer.

I mind the kids while

you pack the bags (take some broccoli, I say.)

In our mother-daughter dance                                                                     

I want to open the turns, request a song 

that cradles the past as it shimmies the present,     

softens the knit between our brows,

loosens the limbs of our perceptions,

forgives our missteps,                                                                                                                 

nudges lyrics free.

Meanwhile here you are, loading the kids

in the car, sturdy as a sunflower

as you lift and buckle them in,

prepare for takeoff.

 I offer you a fat geranium.

You say pink? not today                             

but it’s gorgeous I think as

you leave me.

The scent of petals on my fingers—                                               

mom’s hardy blossoms,

her bossy way. I linger                                                   

in a patch of her driveway.   

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