I remember what my father told me:
There’s only one thing I’ll take with me,
all my women and their memories
But I knew he’d take more than just that.

Only one thing he’ll take with him;
what about me, my brothers and sisters?
I knew he’d take more than just one.
And all his ladies, there were many.

And me and my brothers and sisters,
all dressed in blacks and whites.
The ladies, there were so many,
with flowers, perfumes and their sorrow.

We’re all in black and white.
But the stench is stronger than flowers–
than flowers, perfumes and old sorrow.
The women fall back on those moments.

The stench could wilt their flowers.
They’d given their Tulips before.
The ladies remember those moments,
but we remember it differently.

Yeah he’d gotten their Tulips already.
My mother got two on the lips instead,
cause we remember things differently.
Now he’s greening, becoming mossy.

With his smell locked in a box forever,
I remember what my father told me,
but I knew that he was lying.
He’d take us all, with his women and memories.

*for my father, RIP
©2013

*This poem was written as a response to Linda Pastan’s “Something About the Trees.”