Cosmos, in purple, white, orange.
I am thinking, too, of marigolds, remembering the glowing ruffled banks of them in Mom's gardens last year.
I still want her to be downstairs, at the garden, on her way home from town. Somewhere close she can be back from in just a little bit.
But I have felt the expanse of her spirit, and I have seen the dissolution of her body.
She is no more. She will not somehow rise from the pages of her books, unfold from between handkerchiefs and towels, coalesce from the places she sat, marveled, laughed.
I wish I had paid better attention, that maybe now I could remember her into just the tiniest moment of being.
They say the veil is thin these days; perhaps it would be easier for me to go visit her.