A gift of pressed flowers.
“Too bulky!” the postmaster says. “It will cost double. One dollar and tax.” “It’s a geranium in there,” I say.
Sister Eva will not be reading my note: hand-scripted in black letters. Wilted scarlet blossom.
When mother died six months ago, sister offered me her home. Snow-covered yard. Bare catalpa: seed pods rattling in the wind.
Wide-plank armoire, stained with linseed oil. Unbarked cedar chest. Faded ochre walls,
attic loft curtained in muslin. Wood basket made by apple pickers. Here in this house on Frontenac Road, we ate freshly baked bread. Crisp, round bread, spread with sweet butter and jam.
Mother’s room was closed.
Above all, death requires silence. The hollow hard skin of the gourd fruit dried and used as a vessel for water. Irises grown wild under acacia.
Today the clerk says: “Do you want this beautiful stamp?” “When your friend sees it, she’ll love it.” “It is for my sister,” I say. “She won’t see it. She is blind.”
Geraniums – Wikimedia Commons
Guest Author Bio
Ilona Martonfi Author of two poetry books, Blue Poppy, (Coracle Press, 2009.) Black Grass, (Broken Rules Press 2012). Writes in Vallum, Accenti, The Fiddlehead, Serai. Founder/producer of The Yellow Door and Visual Arts Centre Readings, co-founder of Lovers and Others. QWF 2010 Community Award.
Blog / Website: Artistic Director, Poet, Author Ilona Martonfi on Facebook
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