Sweet Sixteen

 My mom got me roses for my birthday.

A ​cliché​, I know, but the red was so deep,

I half expected my fingertips to disappear

Into the petals when I held them,

Sent to some alternate rosy universe

Full of porcelain teacups and violins with broken strings.

Tucked between the roses were sprigs of baby’s breath,

So delicate that I was scared to get too close

In fear that if I breathed too deeply they would

Disappear into the air and float down my throat

(though my lungs might appreciate

The change of scenery).

I’m not sure if my mother remembered that

These were my favorite flowers,

It's more likely that the premade bouquets

Were cheaper than ones she assembled herself.

I’m also not sure if she remembered

That she taught me how to braid them into

Crowns when I was a child;

Her hands moving mine through the motions

Until I no longer needed her help.

I would dance around the garden for a day,

And if I was quiet enough I could’ve sworn

I heard fairies whispering the secrets of the forest

Into my ears.

She would tell me to take them off

And leave them at the door before dinner

(she didn’t want them to attract bugs,

Who crept from the floorboards to nest

In the bread or die trapped behind windows).

At the end of the summer

There remained a pile of crowns

At the door, as tall as my knee,

And I would watch them slowly rot

As the grass died

And the trees withered.

I haven’t made one in years,

Partially because it seems like the grass

hasn’t come back to life since those summers

(if it has, I never noticed).

Even now as I look at the vase of roses

And baby’s breath,

I can see the water yellowing

As the stems begin their inevitable decay.

The roses have gone limp and bruised,

And the leaves are turning brown at the tips.

I never asked my mom if she

remembered about the baby’s breath.

I probably never will,

It would be an uncomfortable conversation

Because she doesn’t remember,

And I know she doesn’t remember

(she knows that too, I think).

Instead, I’ll pretend she does,

That she stood for hours in the flower shop,

Insisting on baby’s breath,

Because they’re my favorite,

And it was my birthday.

That can be enough,

I can remember for the both of us.