image from poetess' personal scrapbook
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The third drawer down, stuck sometimes, resists like a child refusing supper~ then gives all at once. Inside: a landslide of faded cotton, each square a surrendered flag. Some still crisp with the ghost of starch, others softened by years of fists, damp with forgotten tears. The blue gingham one worn thin at the edges~ once blotted my knee when I fell running toward her. The white lacy one, embroidered with spring flowers, never used, as if saving itself for a grief too clean to stain. At the bottom, one still folded tight into a perfect rectangle— the way she left it, the way I won’t unfold it, keeping her last touch trapped in the seams. related memoir vignette at: poetrysoup.com/short_stories/lavender_time_and_mother_13659
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