Pulling the hose from the vegetable bed
to the flower bed while racing against the
ascendant dusk
my mother’s presence washes over me
(although she has been dead 3 years now)
Hi mommy I say to the evening air
I sense her smile and just as quicky she is gone
People used to say my mother had a green thumb
she could pick a leaf plant it and it would grow
when our neighbours plants were near dead
they could bring them and mommy would nurture
and revive them
others literally dragged her
to their yards
laughing her eye outshinning stars
she would say I am not an agromist or an aboritst
but mommy knew the language of plants
As I yank the hose to water the ferns
that circle the mango tree
and the Joseph Coats near the veranda
I’m pulled back to my childhood
our verandah chock-full
of African violets with
fat furry green leaves
purple white and pink blossoms
in clay pots that covered the entire
circumference
My child-self sees you coming home from work
and me running to greet you at the gate
often you never went inside before
reaching for the hose
putting your purse on the step
then watering your colourful beds of gerbas
then pulling the hose to the right side of our large yard
you watered the banana and plantain trees
the callaloo and cabbage
all the things that you grew
all the while teaching me about the greenness of life
how to beautify my yard and grow what I eat