Late Morning Stroll in the InezGrant Parker Memorial Rose Garden

I am certain I see him though

the sun blinds my eyes, this

almost afternoon amongst roses

I am certain of that nose, sharp

prickly, eyes I could see even

in the dark, the mouth that

at best grimaced and feet that

shuffled down creaky wooden

corridors

I am certain though he is

smaller, the monster I called

father who was not my father,

hunched over, wearing that

same white bucket hat and

same dark blue track suit

I am certain of the racing

heart and frozen blood the

flood of terror, here early

summer, surrounded by

rainbows of roses and

tourists and groups of

children wearing

matching summer camp

t-shirts

the irony of juxtaposition

does not escape me

but today in the sun I

do not run or hide, I stay

in the embrace of color

and aroma, velvety sweet

and begin to go rose by

rose

to breathe

and some smell of tapestries

of stories rich with wisdom

and some smell of absence

and I ask the gardener nearby

why the variation?

and he says, the prettiest ones

are hybrids, doctored to

create spectacular color

meaning the least beautiful

are the most real? I ask

he nods and adds, and

have the richest aroma

and just then I see a

pinkish rose, drooping

like the tears of love,

falling like the sagging

skin of all the wise women

who hold the world for all

of us, and I tilt my head

underneath to inhale her aroma

and smell a lifetime of

sunshine and story and

behold in this moment the

monster and rose, the real

not, and wounds that

carve out places inside

and hearts still seeking

the sun