THE WAY HOME.............. Nancy Barbara, US My mother has no headstone. It was her last wish, and we obeyed. I imagine if she could see through her entombment of lavender satin and cherry mahogany, roots would entwine her line of vision, spinning a web of life from the rose bushes planted above her. cemetery plots dot hills of green with white t's mother has no cross Before she heeded the angels' plea, she spent her days among tea roses which lined our walk. My father swore his coffee grounds gave her roses the much envied aroma of the neighborhood. Every morning, he'd carefully bury the remains of his dark roast beneath the already rich soil. My mother swore at the sight, protesting it was her banana peels which made her roses yawn at dawn and pray to the sun. She'd place the yellow face of Chiquita around the base of each bush like a Band-Aid; a sight which would cause my father to erupt with the laughter of an amused child. blood-red black roses rich as roasted espresso sweet as bananas On the twenty-fifth anniversary of my mother's death, my father planted the twenty-fifth rose bush above her coffin. On his knees in the bitter cold, thorns biting my father's hardened hands, he dug a hole deep enough to reach his heaven. He packed the soil with Italian roast and covered the roots with strips of banana peels. And there, like a wilted rose, he curled up and died, face-to-face with my mother. this garden is full it's time to come home to you bitter sweetness blooms   return to top of page