Aunt Bee is out tending flowers,
even though it’s dark.
She stays out until it’s time
to tell us good night.
I like to watch her
on the nights she sings.
She hasn’t been singing since
Mama sent us our letters, though.
I miss her singing. I want
to hear her voice again, and I think this
might be why I open the door and
walk down the porch steps and
stand by her side tonight.
The flowers look pretty, I say,
just to let her know I’m here.
She turns her face to me and smiles,
but her eyes stay tight and dark,
like they don’t remember
how to smile the way the rest
of her face does. She moves her hand
under one of the white flowers
we thought for sure wouldn’t make it.
I didn’t think I’d ever see this one
bloom again, she says. Your gran’s got
magic in her hands.
Her voice is sad and happy
at the same time. I touch
the velvety petals of the bloom
closest to me, and she sits back
on her heels.
Your daddy gave it to me,
and I let it die, she says.
Her eyes are like brown
pieces of glass, but she blinks
the shine away. And then,
so soft I can hardly hear,
she says, And here it is again.
Resurrected.
I let her have her quiet for a minute,
but there’s something I need to say,
something that’s been burning up
inside of me since reading Mama’s letter.
I don’t really know how to say it, so
I count a minute and then I blurt out,
I don’t want to go back,
before I lose my nerve.
Aunt Bee doesn’t say anything at all.
She just folds me in her arms
and lets me stay.
After a long breath,
she starts singing.