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  • That rainy afternoon napping on the green sofa

    when you let me explore your milky-silky hand.

    You were seventy, I was five, and we wondered.
  • That time when your cheeks were chapped from crying

    and I helped you make a small blue pillow with crooked stitches.

    The sun came out, you smiled, and we were pleased.
  • That time I wrote you a letter, and you wrote back:

    Your words humble me. We will talk soon.

    We did, through all the wet gray days, and we learned.
  • That November in Venice when the water-splashed stone

    and the trite violinist were ours alone.

    We wouldn't be forever, but we agreed to remember.
  • That time riding the ferry through the fog in the bay

    and you and your warmth leaned into me.

    There was nothing except everything, and we mattered.
  • That damp April when everyone went back to their busy worlds

    and I was finally alone with you and your little pink life.

    We made each other, and we were us.
  • That moment after a tear-filled holiday dinner

    when you were too big to fall asleep in my arms but you did anyway.

    We were grateful, and we were at peace.
  • That time when you planted the seeds,

    and tended them,

    and then held out a bouquet to me:

    Love-in-a-mist, you said, Love-in-a-mist.
  • Love-in-a-mist is a flower in the buttercup family native to Southern Europe, North Africa and parts of Asia. The plant's name comes from the flower being nestled in a ring of multifid, lacy bracts.


    Love-in-a-mist is an adventive species in many parts of the world, meaning it has arrived from elsewhere but it is not self-sustaining. Some adventive species eventually become naturalized but only after long periods of cultivation by humans.


    (Excerpted from Wikipedia.)
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