Flowers on Sunday Together

The world ends so abruptly.  Suddenly, gravity is palpable, pinning you here, when the only answer you can think of is, No.  No.

Each instance is so particular, no one else’s history is much help.  But we stand here nonetheless, in the spot where gravity left us stranded as well, made us softer – stretched us out until there was another day, and another and another.

Our home ran on tea, brewed in a big brown pot, speckled with red and turquoise buds, with golden vines and leaves trailing between the dots.  Brewed so dark – black as a stepmother’s heart our friend Linda used to say.  For a while, I was buying the same teapot whenever I found a small one.  Their round, brown bellies filled me with memories of certainty and ordinary days.  Maybe all the answers went with the big teapot, wherever it ended up.

I think Marv and Barbara would know what to say – so you would know how dearly they loved you.  I love you, too.

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