Her grandmother, too,
made quilts every bit as fine,
and with the same deliberate patience;
we still have them, and will, long after
the wind has blown the rose.
This image was sent me by a friend
who visited my mother’s grave
a few days after her burial.
I haven’t met this friend; I know her only
through the letters we’ve exchanged
during the past several years.
This is part of what she said:
“I hope you don’t mind — I took the liberty of paying my respects to your Mother… attached is a picture of the homemade offering of two small roses we placed at her resting site. I also saw your father’s headstone and at one point stood in-between them and started my you don’t know me but story… and proceeded to tell them how we came to cross paths… what a lovely resting spot.”