For Eva, my dead sunflower.
I.
From the aircraft, the clouds look like clumps of wisteria blossoms. And the sky is an emulsion of orange and pink. The sun is hazy along the Western horizon, where waves and froth from water bodies smoothen out and burble. I hear the sounds the bubbles make, imagine a river flowing through my body, and smile to myself.
What comes to mind is the Mourner's Prayer, the one you say at the synagogue each week in memory of your grandmother Denise, and the millions of Jews who died in the Holocaust having no one left to pray for them. Yitgadal v’yitkadash sh’mei raba... Your eyes well up with tears, and we hug in consolation. Memories are all we have.
II.
I close my eyes, and an image of you floats in front of me. You, walking through a garden of wild nasturtiums, in a watered silk shirt and marigold culottes, with birds-of-paradise feathers hemmed to your collar, carrying in your left hand a copy of The Kite Runner, and in your right, a mandolin. The Santa Ana winds are percussing your face, creating an accordion of sounds and murmurs. And against the canvas of a bright copper sky, knots of clouds are floating.
III.
I ask you, Ida, did you hear the sound of rain at night? You say, Of course I did, it was beautiful; like a clamoring of pearls, like the whistling of rummaging thrush birds. But do you know, Ida, how old Monsoon is? You say, I don't, but the ocean does.
IV.
I bought you at the Queens Market near Sunnyside in September, and now you are dying of frostbite from when I was away in Santa Catarina, short of unfurling your petals. Your green stem is now a piece of wire, and the leaves are stiff, rattling in the winds. As morbid as it may seem, you are like my dead baby, with a date of birth, an expiration, and a bundle of memories.
So long Eva Jane, may you rest in peace.
I.
From the aircraft, the clouds look like clumps of wisteria blossoms. And the sky is an emulsion of orange and pink. The sun is hazy along the Western horizon, where waves and froth from water bodies smoothen out and burble. I hear the sounds the bubbles make, imagine a river flowing through my body, and smile to myself.
What comes to mind is the Mourner's Prayer, the one you say at the synagogue each week in memory of your grandmother Denise, and the millions of Jews who died in the Holocaust having no one left to pray for them. Yitgadal v’yitkadash sh’mei raba... Your eyes well up with tears, and we hug in consolation. Memories are all we have.
II.
I close my eyes, and an image of you floats in front of me. You, walking through a garden of wild nasturtiums, in a watered silk shirt and marigold culottes, with birds-of-paradise feathers hemmed to your collar, carrying in your left hand a copy of The Kite Runner, and in your right, a mandolin. The Santa Ana winds are percussing your face, creating an accordion of sounds and murmurs. And against the canvas of a bright copper sky, knots of clouds are floating.
III.
I ask you, Ida, did you hear the sound of rain at night? You say, Of course I did, it was beautiful; like a clamoring of pearls, like the whistling of rummaging thrush birds. But do you know, Ida, how old Monsoon is? You say, I don't, but the ocean does.
IV.
I bought you at the Queens Market near Sunnyside in September, and now you are dying of frostbite from when I was away in Santa Catarina, short of unfurling your petals. Your green stem is now a piece of wire, and the leaves are stiff, rattling in the winds. As morbid as it may seem, you are like my dead baby, with a date of birth, an expiration, and a bundle of memories.
So long Eva Jane, may you rest in peace.
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