Today's poem is My Grandmother's Violets by Isis Phoenix. It is read by Gibson Fay-LeBlanc.
My Grandmother's Violets
Botanical name - Viola odorata.
Their delicate, deep-purple heads
bow shyly, like long, lavender bells
atop slender swan necks.
One of Oklahoma's first spring flowers,
they grew in abundance
under the shady scrap tree
beside my grandmother's home
on South St. Louis Street in Tulsa.
I'd squat with scabby knees
in my pink velcro sneakers
and roll the stems back and forth
between my small fingers
crushing the skinny tubes,
watching viscous, green, odorless liquid squish out.
And I wanted them to smell.
And in my mind, they did—
like violet pastille candies and hyacinth and dandelion.
I'd pick dozens which my grandmother
would put in a tiny cut crystal vase
on her wood and enamel living room table.
When my grandmother died,
my mother dug up her violets
and planted them next
to the hydrangeas and roses
on East 52nd St.
And I pick them,
but I no longer crush the stems.
Instead, I pluck the purple heads
and place them in my mouth,
delicately holding their shape with my tongue.
And swallow them whole.
They still did not smell,
and tasted like - not much.
But in my mind,
they are sugared candy and stardust.
My mother put them in the tiny cut crystal vase
and placed them on the green, marble counter top in her bathroom.
When my mother was in her final weeks,
I dug up my grandmother's violets
and packed them in a plastic grocery store bag,
and placed them in my luggage.
They traveled on planes from
Oklahoma and Chicago and Boston and Rockland,
until their sagging heads arrived
on Sproul Hill Rd. in Bistol, Maine,
where I planted them under a white pine
When spring comes,
I will pick them again,
place them in a tiny, cut crystal vase
on the butcher block counter of the kitchen island,
and remember how they never smelled—
yet always did—
like my grandmother's perfume,
and my mother's roses.
Music provided by Chris Moore and Storyblocks.