The slight pear tree held
my five-year-old curious-girl frame.

Fall fell year-long.
Ladybugs tempted and purified.

Startled by a praying mantis, I dropped to my knees.
A doorway in the hedge led me home.

Years later, I finally learned to inhale.
Half-smoked cigarettes dotted spots under the pines,

where I also left my innocence. Baited by bases.
Kissed by the sun. Sustained by drugstore candy and dreams.

Days burst with time.
Leaves aflame with color.
We trudged through neat piles
toward grownup-hood.
We had all that we wanted.

Youth untouched by earthquakes and aftershocks,
we found shelter from the autumn chill
playing touch football with neighbors.
Unaware we wanted for nothing.

This morning an oil painting beckons—
a gazebo strewn with wispy vines and
landscape of pink blossoms—
draws me to dream, backward and forward.
We want all that we had.

A blood orange sun told me not to stay.
Ears and heart outstretched, I’d bow to its
splendor until it dropped from the horizon.

Born to be Wild screeched from huge
speakers at the church carnival,
where we hid behind big trees

with former altar boys, tantalizing our younger
sisters still afraid of the dark, who dressed in
Danskin short sets. Our bachelor neighbor next

door neighbor lived with his married sister.
A staid accountant at the electric company
by day, on Saturday nights he would stumble

home, cutting through the neatly trimmed
hedges, blood running down his face.
But my fear of booze didn’t last.

I sipped Tequila Sunrises and Sloe Gin Fizzes
while listening to Supa Philly, wrapped in my
mother’s Von Furstenberg dress. Men thought

I was way older than seventeen. See, good
Catholic girls knew how to laugh and drink and dance
The tree tops caught our secrets and remained mum.

At my mother’s house
Children’s laughter no longer rings through sunlit rooms
A family of one has settled in

But days are long here
Nature bewitches

Fall’s brilliant yellow leaves shine on rainy days
The barrenness of winter doesn’t disappoint
Spring’s lush green uplifts the darkest mood
On muggy summer nights crickets hold concerts that lull me to sleep

At my mother’s house
I write mornings from my Haverford haven
A collage of sentiments stain loose-leaf journals
We’re both now free from the familial thunder

In my mother’s house
I finally have a vacation home
Only two hours away but far from the chiasso of New York City
Where I luxuriate in the slow pace and abundant space

At my mother’s house
Some nights I hear moaning but it can’t be her
For I see the shadow of her stunning smile
Everywhere there’s beauty

From my mother’s house
I wonder if she was ever lonely
Though she cultivated new friends each year
Many whom I now call family

My mother adored her last home
It was in my father’s afterlife that she glowed the most
Boasting about her three daughters and coddling her grandchildren
The English professor was proudest of her domestic role

From my precious second home
I bless the gods who stopped my sisters from breaking the will
I toast the one who gave me life
For I got the greatest gift of all

I didn’t know my mother loved pink roses
Until the day I ordered floral arrangements for her funeral Mass
She didn’t seem to care much for flowers as a young mother
She never received flowers from my father, who tended our special rose gardens each summer

I thought she considered bouquets a frivolous purchase
Maybe she thought flowers flourished best in their natural habitat
My mother grew up with a father whose passion was gardening
Flowers, most of whose names I never learned, framed the backdrop of my childhood summers

But pink roses? I had to discover an intimate slice of my mother’s life from a neighborhood store owner?
I recall the woman at the florist exclaiming, “oh yes, she always asked for pink roses when ordering arrangements for anniversaries and birthdays”

Pink roses do resemble my mother — subtle, sweet flowers from the regal rose family
She once gave me a gorgeous oil painting when I moved to a new apartment in New York
Excitedly took it from her bedroom wall and presented my first and only housewarming gift
She said “it’s by A Celli, look him up on your computer — it must be valuable — it’s dated 1930”

I’ve looked at that artwork every morning for nearly five years
And only now realized the perky flowers in the silver bowl are pink roses

She left us one overcast morning in late September
She was weak
No longer brimming with joy for life after confined to her home for too long
I took all her worldly possessions for granted
So many of them remnants of our life back in the family home on Pennsylvania Avenue

Only now I see pink roses on the Limoges vanity set on her dresser
Pink roses on a German vase in the powder room
Pink roses on the edges of an unusual condiment holder hidden away in the dining buffet
Pink roses on a nick-less decorative plate

On Memorial Day, as I crossed West Side Highway to get to my gym
I was met by bush upon bush of pink roses that danced in the breeze
On my last birthday, a close friend sent me a card, the first card of the special day
Sparkles outlined large pedals of pink roses

I now believe my mother speaks to me in pink roses
What else did she love that I don’t know?
Will they remain secrets that rest in her heart?