Laurels
for ChrisI would take it with me, take a shovel to the soft
bucket of earth that hasn’t quite healed overfrom the last time I dug and pulled out thistle
or the spindly stalks of grains that bobbedtheir heads in a breeze too light for my hairs.
I would take it somewhere else to die. I knowthat it takes the acid of deep Ohio soils but I
have killed the others–mowed them or let themdrown in burdock–before the pink beads of their
flowers could pop open like peppermints, spiralingout in red and white. Because my husband
gave me three and I killed two. Because hegave me three and nothing sent me to the back
yard and the yellowjackets and the yellowsun to guardthem and two died, and the third will die when I
leave, like a memory I am no longer here to keep.
This one hit me like a punch in the gut. Strong, strong writing, Julie. Beautiful and painful like life itself.
xo
lisa
Wow.
Beautiful.