Planting Crocuses with my Mother
While I dug out the holes she tipped out the bulbs, little brown and papery hearts playing dead beside the granite headstone on my father’s grave.
She popped the nuggets in her fingers stiffening with cold, the knuckles swollen-boned and red. Then we replaced each sod, patted back the damp October grass until it looked as if we’d never been.
There should be a fine show in spring, she said. Even better the year after. We stood and stared as if to visualise the tiny yellow, white and lilac heads stretching thin green necks towards bright April skies.
Then again, she laughed, rubbing her hands to make them warm, if I go soon, you’ll have to dig the whole lot up again.
Magi Gibson
Poem supplied courtesy of the Scottish Poetry Library
From Wild Women of a Certain Age (Chapman, 2000) |