I STILL TALK TO YOU, DO YOU LISTEN?

In July, when fireworks burst in night skies,
I flew to a land with oak trees older than you.
Their drooping branches drip with Spanish moss
and canopy a ground crawling with crusty
black roaches and percussive frogs with a
strange sense of rhythm. You wore pink
chiffon and too much makeup.
I wore black and stood by your side
on your night of independence in a
hard-to-breathe steam that locals call summer,
with an armful of flowers, one of every color.
I thought they were gaudy but I knew you
would like them. You loved color,
except on people’s skin.
You had a way of smearing an entire race
with one word. Then, in your next breath,
you praised their ability to tend the gardenias
that lined the path to your front door; the same
door you opened every Tuesday at noon,
holding a pitcher of iced tea and a glass;
your gift to the yard man, Horace,
always a gentleman, always smiling.
In July, he stood quietly beside me in his
wrinkled red tie and blue polyester suit that
smelled of moth balls. One sweaty arm
held his wife, the other gripped a few
carnations wrapped in green tissue from
the A&P. He knew you would like them.
I assured him you would.
While your great grandbabies ran circles
around our legs, we winced and watched
your arthritic bones take their final bow
and go on their underground journey
to a place you can dance with no pain.
I forgot to ask before you left if you’d
ever ridden a New York subway.

Melissa Resch (BostonArtist)