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Town Without Mother by Susan Florence I'm not surprised she left in winter. She‐who had forgotten words yet remembered the language of flowers. You'd think the others didn't know so early to farmer's market, bulging bags of leafy greens baskets heavy with winter oranges. It would have been hard for her to leave in spring when roses bud, sweet peas waft their subtle scent and mustard and purple lupin lavish hills. You'd think he hadn't heard, the fiddler sawing his song as if we all wanted to dance. It would have been hard for her not to spot the Mariposa Lily, its three petals open like a chalice hidden in the shade of her childhood. Even as I leave they come: cyclists in shiny synthetics, vegetarians and the gluten free, kids on parents shoulders riding the sea of sunglasses. The flower vendor must have guessed, Only one bunch of tulips today? Yes, for my daughter, the yellow ones.
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