The roses are done. Tenderness became crisp, the soft blooms drooped, the leaves wrinkled, the fragrance lingered and the still sturdy canes are laid upon the autumn garden remains.
These are things I never say or think. I just see the empty vase and dully recognize--
We hold the space. The vase was cloudy; with care I washed and polished the glass.
We go about what we do, among our ordinary household things. Our hearts enwrap an empty place. Sometimes we think of the flowers and how they looked in the window with the lace curtains. Mostly we feel the empty space, hearts like fingertips against thumb, holding the circled space like we held the blades picked for mother.
Dumb, we hold the place, waiting.
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