We walk with a pail full of dirt dug
from the compost mound out back
to the boxes lined on the walkway in front
one for each of the four windows,
our fingernails blackened
at the half-moon tips, our skin
darkened in creases from kneeling
over potted Impatiens.
She wore surgical gloves
when she handled the plants
to spare them brown edges,
the glove’s bitter powder dusting
the leaves. Her work was slow and deliberate;
she would not let me practice:
I could only watch listening
to her recite the planting instructions
as if I was to store them up, a cactus,
for the day I was to take her place.
I asked about the name, at nine,
my beginner’s ears not clear
enough to hear nuance, and wondered
how a plant could be impatient.
She evened the soil in the boxes,
watered the wilting plants in excess
arranging them on plates
to catch what fell through
because Impatiens, she said,
do not mind wet feet,
and not enough water
will kill them certain,
their tiny heads facing west
as they are. I watched her time
the imbibing, looking at the minute hand
of her wrist watch, the small circle
of reflected light from the face
shining in my eyes. By now,
the sun had already begun its descent
to the low orange sky, our Saturday closing down,
the only thing left, to hang
the four completed flower boxes.
I could only think that tomorrow
outside on the front steps, my mother
might cradle me between her legs
and brush my hair until sunset,
the summer sun warm,
the flowers blooming full force.