The Gardener

Ramando’s hands were dark, cracked and blistered.
Barely taller than his knee he’d pile branches
into my out turned arms and we’d laugh - 
pretending to understand more than the gestures
and charades passed between us
under the summer heat and every morning he’d give me his hat
in exchange for a hug and a whisper of Papa in his ear.

If I tripped on the berry vines he’d catch my tears with a finger,
and tuck them in his pocket before pinching my chin.
If I started to slow he’d motion to the wildflowers and then his head,
nodding again to the flowers with raised brows.
I’d sit in the shade sewing stem to stem as he
pulled at Wayward Weeds until their red roots
snapped back from the soil.

Sometimes he sang and I’d dance, clapping
and yelping and laughing with outstretched arms
turning on toe ‘round and ‘round and ‘round and then
he fell.
My feet stopped. I called his name.
Once, twice, again,
I screamed.

Ramando’s hands were dark, cracked and blistered.
Barely taller than his casket I placed a wildflower
crown upon his hair and caught a tear with my finger,
tucking it in his pocket.

Reviews

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This is amazing to read. I didn't expect such a moving end.