Mary Dominguez

Pink Geraniums

My dog and I take the first steps
leading us around the small park and
I see my mother's ghost on the sidewalk,
“Do you walk?” she asks me.

Mom wears a wide brim straw hat,
shoulders back, posture erect.
I walk slightly stooped, looking down
at the street and pulled by the dog.

She’s holding geranium cuttings
borrowed from a neighbor’s yard,
I sense her laughter while I clean
up after the dog.

Everyday we walk around this park,
past the pine trees and she wonders
why the dog and not the stroller
with her bouncing grandson.

We walk home past Mr. Martin’s
house with the cracked stained stucco
and overgrown shrubs, “What a mess,”
my mother’s voice whispers.

Home to an empty house,
I stop and reflect on pink geraniums
in the yard and long to hear my
mother’s voice again.