FLOWER

I move on, weeding

all the way around the front.

Gran works close beside me.

When we get to the

side of the house, Gran says,

Well, look at that. She’s pointing

at a tiny white flower,

yellow tips sticking out

from its center.

Our first flower.

A beeblossom.

I don’t think. I break off

the bloom and race inside

and push it in Aunt Bee’s face

so she can see that her garden

is blooming again and it has

nothing to do with the man

who broke her heart.

Aunt Bee stares at it a minute, two, three,

and just when I think maybe I’ve done

exactly the wrong thing,

she takes it from me and puts it

under her nose and

breathes deep and long.

A smile squeezes out words.

I haven’t seen one of these

in years, she says.

All your flowers are

coming back to life, I say,

and the words feel true.

Aunt Bee smiles real big then,

and it glows brighter than the

white flower in her hand.

Yes, she says. They are.

And then she tucks the flower

behind her left ear and pulls me

into arms that feel soft

and warm and safe.