They gave us all roses and told us to wear floral dresses because you

loved

flowers?

That's a weird thing to remember about someone.

Who doesn't like flowers?

I made a pie the other day. I put the butter in the freezer first and my mother said "why would you do that?" but it's how you

taught

baking.

What a weird thing to question about someone.

Who doesn't freeze their pie butter?

We packed my belongings. Among them I found a rose, dried, labeled

"Gwen's funeral, 2019"

and I spun it carefully across my palm before holding it up--

to my nose.

Such a weird thing to do for someone.

Expect to still smell them in their own funeral rose,

a rose they never touched

a rose they never chose.

A rose that their grandchildren carried--

I'm holding on, but my fingers are slipping--

to put in an urn

--you're slipping, Grandma--

because yes, she loved flowers.

Not music or magazines or God or telling naughty jokes with an impish smile.

So our lasting tribute,

just like every other dead person,

is...this drugstore rose.

“Red is the only color.”

I tap the Red against my palm.

Twist Red

Brush Red in long, careful strokes

I am not an artist —

the Red goes places it should not.

I scold the Red away.

My canvas shivers

and I wrap her so only the Red

peeks through.

Ten beautiful shining Reds

on a translucent canvas.

Soon the Reds too will be covered.

Soon the canvas will burn to ash.

The art was never in the canvas.

red is only a color.