Light dappled my hands.
The shears held firmly, I stretched and stretched,
grasping the branch by a thin patch of leaves,
pulling it towards my heart.
A diagonal cut. Then another. And another.
The perfume rose in a single wave to greet me,
Whispering of spring,
of awkward romance, of my first cologne.
Moving towards the kitchen,
I buried my nose in the deep amethyst blooms.
The vase, striped green on the diagonal, held waiting water.
No fancy arrangement, just branch ends immersed.
I turned then to feed the orange cat,
its whiskers tickling my ankle in anticipation.
One scoop. Then another. And another.
When I turned back, my father, five years dead, stood before me.
The lilac scent he loved so much filled the room
and my heart stretched and stretched,
in greeting, in memory.