Pretty Little Flowers
Cynthia Pitman

Before they took her away,
I used to stand by my window
and watch my mother
work in her flower garden.
I can see her now, on her knees,
crouched down, spade in hand,
tilling yet another flower bed,
ready to bring color and life
into the saddest of worlds.

I watch her closely.
Then my chest tightens.
I see what she is doing.
One by one,
she plants her grandmother’s
fine china teacups into the dirt,
their delicate handles pointing up.
With a curved hand,
she covers each cup with loose dirt.
Later, after I tell my father in fear
and they come to take her away,
she cries and clings to me,
explaining that she loved
the sweet little red flowers
on the cups, and had only wanted
to grow them in her garden.

Now, so many years later,
I gaze through the same window.
When the light hits the garden
at a certain slant at twilight,
I feel sure I see
sprouting from the weeds
fragile stems with tiny red blooms.