Roses in July

I remember,

the call of the bird clock on the kitchen wall,

chirping on the hour every hour.

It echoes like the ocean in the shells I used to collect.

The ones I piled high on the garden table. 

Now,

Someone else lives there.

And the birds of paradise,

once worshipped by wrinkled hands

don’t bloom like they used to.

I remember,

Nana’s garden

spilled over with roses peach, red, almost white, 

their scent folding into the air like sugar and earth. 

I breathed it in, 

not knowing how much I'd need that memory.

Now, 

I visit the past the way I visit a grave, 

with hands that want to touch what’s already gone.

I remember, 

the way the air carried the fragrant blooms

in the humid July air,

roses blooming under a sky

 that didn’t know loss yet.

 Roses that opened

like we did.

Four generations of women              

under one roof.

This poem is part of an ongoing project "In Spite of Everything" reimagining the family photo album through mixed media collage and writing.