Post by ScarletMornings on Jan 3, 2008 1:13:27 GMT -8
I didn't really mean this as a poem. I just wanted to be able to write this and be able to emphasize certain things with my structure. So it ended up like a poem but I don't really mean it as one. Hopefully that makes sense?
This is for my grandma. She died on Christmas Eve.
This is for my grandma. She died on Christmas Eve.
There are carnations on the counter.
Pink carnations.
Mom put them in an applesauce jar
with the fifty other flowers she pulled out of the arrangement.
If you know my mom,
you'll understand what I just said.
I picked out the carnations.
My sister picked out pink roses.
But I chose pink carnations.
Maybe it was because I didn’t want to be cliché
with roses.
Or maybe I was just being selfish.
Carnations are my favorite flower.
I was glad there were some there.
There were flowers everywhere in the church.
I guess there usually are.
It was my sixth funeral,
you’d think I would remember something like that.
In my defense, I don’t remember two of them that well.
They were mostly pink-
the flowers, that is.
Just like on the casket.
We walked by her one last time.
I barely glanced,
my head was down,
and all I could really see was her hand as I brushed it.
I regret that.
I couldn’t even remember what the lining of her casket said.
But it was nice.
And it was pink.
That’s why she didn’t match it.
She was wearing some dreary, drab color.
Maybe olive.
And it was so not her.
And I wanted to demand who had chosen that outfit.
I wanted to demand it was changed.
She told me she wanted to be buried in pink.
Probably sometime when she was teaching me to sew,
sitting on her gray couch,
threads spread around us
as I asked her what her favorite color was.
Can you guess?
It was pink.
And somehow that led to what color she’d like to wear after she died.
I guess it makes sense she’d want to wear her favorite color.
She told me she wanted to be buried in pink.
There were pink flowers
pink linings
pink cake
pink words.
Olive clothes.
Pink blurs so beautifully,
but olive not so much.
I’m really going to miss her.
Pink carnations.
Mom put them in an applesauce jar
with the fifty other flowers she pulled out of the arrangement.
If you know my mom,
you'll understand what I just said.
I picked out the carnations.
My sister picked out pink roses.
But I chose pink carnations.
Maybe it was because I didn’t want to be cliché
with roses.
Or maybe I was just being selfish.
Carnations are my favorite flower.
I was glad there were some there.
There were flowers everywhere in the church.
I guess there usually are.
It was my sixth funeral,
you’d think I would remember something like that.
In my defense, I don’t remember two of them that well.
They were mostly pink-
the flowers, that is.
Just like on the casket.
We walked by her one last time.
I barely glanced,
my head was down,
and all I could really see was her hand as I brushed it.
I regret that.
I couldn’t even remember what the lining of her casket said.
But it was nice.
And it was pink.
That’s why she didn’t match it.
She was wearing some dreary, drab color.
Maybe olive.
And it was so not her.
And I wanted to demand who had chosen that outfit.
I wanted to demand it was changed.
She told me she wanted to be buried in pink.
Probably sometime when she was teaching me to sew,
sitting on her gray couch,
threads spread around us
as I asked her what her favorite color was.
Can you guess?
It was pink.
And somehow that led to what color she’d like to wear after she died.
I guess it makes sense she’d want to wear her favorite color.
She told me she wanted to be buried in pink.
There were pink flowers
pink linings
pink cake
pink words.
Olive clothes.
Pink blurs so beautifully,
but olive not so much.
I’m really going to miss her.