Talking to Myself Twenty-Eight

Gladioli borrowed from web

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Talking to Myself Twenty-Eight June 28, 2020

She brought in flowers–gladiolas,
my grandmother’s favorite, deep red
and pink orange, fallen over but still
blooming on our dining table. They
brought them  to me in Russia. I was
the guest, given the best food even
before the children. I was taken to
meet the local administrators. They
fed me huge meals, gave me vodka,
danced for me, sang katushki. We
walked and hugged our favorite
trees. Theirs were familiar. Mine
was new. Through trees we spoke
our love, calmed our spirits. You
tried to stop loving me, and I tried,
too. It went too deep.  Feasts were
provided, but I couldn’t eat. They 
showed me their gardens. They
grew their food all around their
house. In desperate times they had
fruit and meat. They were rich and I
shared their bounty, their aching
songs, their laughter. All these
connections. The same flowers;
different times. I still flourish, still
marvel at the treasures I’m given
that I never asked for.