Apricot Trees

Apricot Trees David J Walker My mother randomly spoke of the beauty She saw in trees that lined The streets in town The boughs and branches placed in parks and esplanades on Arbor days in the all but forgotten past now hidden in the ether Of dementia that was literally riddling her mind But If I listened carefully There was a story connected in Every 3rd or 4th word about her Childhood on a prairie farm with a large garden and Fowl of every kind Where her mother Planted apricot trees in line by the dirt road leading to their Front door and plans to make jam that fall I stood by the bed as mother lay dying Reaching with her right hand I imagined her as a Young girl picking apricots Near the farmhouse Taking her time Going down the line tree to tree Carefully placing the ripened fruit in her apron pockets I imagined her smiling again in a youthful glow That I had never seen before The day she had to go and Help make jam