My father, who can't remember
what he had for lunch
or if he's eaten anything at all,
tells me that once,
trying to win my mother's heart,
he had made a letter
out of flower petals
and sent it to her in the mail.
He must have been nineteen.
And I imagine him, unfastening
the daisies from their orbs,
undoing blue-bells and
reorganizing astors.
My mother remembers then too.
Remembering makes her face go soft
and shine right on him
in a way I have not seen
in years.
And I can see her, opening
the envelope that day,
the same look softening her face
as if a breeze had crossed it.
Somewhere, out of sight,
a gate swings open.
-- Deb Cooper