The Scent of a Flower

The scent of a flower and there

she was, 18 again, head on my shoulder

as we sat high on a bluff watching

the Mississippi River flow in its eternal

journey towards an ocean a thousand miles

south of our perch.

A yellow flower behind her ear, one I picked

for her on our hike to the summit, a wood sorrel

in full bloom on a hot summer day. I kissed her

head touched her cheek, held her hand,

an innocence soon stripped away. We were

friends clinging to each other, too shy

to be with others, safe hiding away, me

off to school, her with other dreams.

Her mother called me in late fall. Come home,

she is asking for you, there isn’t much time.

I drove all night to the hospital, her family

tired and clustered in the cold waiting room.

Cancer, it came quickly… she wants to see you now.

So thin, so pale, already a faint memory

of the woman she could have been. I had stolen

a yellow rose out of a yard where I had parked.

Her eyes smiled as I placed it behind her ear.

She held my hand, I kissed her head,

touched her cheek, told her I loved her…

waiting two long days in a chair in the corner

until she died.

The scent of a single flower and

There she was,

Her head on my shoulder, me

Holding her hand.