Hollyhocks in my grandmother's garden wave in silence as their long stamens bob in the quiet afternoon oblivious to noisy bees darting, foraging in yellow stamens weighted for their benefit - my namesakes.
I remember the stupefying scent of lilacs in mid July, shrouding my mother's tears, as incense will penetrate, preserve thoughts in a church during a mass.
Nighttime nicotine, white star shapes, scenting the heavens, heralding the nightlights above.
Spring plenty, daffodils bursting through March grasses; park of child-pickers, armloads of pale yellow heads bobbing as they stooped for more, gleeful.
Yellow lilies, mournful blooms marking my inability to continue to conceive.
Red, the loving rose - a full dozen, baby's breath contrasting the abundance, and a smile of happiness for the unexpected thoughtfulness.
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