your traveling nasturtiums

by Emily Davidson

i keep thinking about your traveling nasturtiums

whose leaves grew larger than my hands

whose vines were so curious

they dove happily out of the bounds

of the raised herb bed

weaving themselves yards away into other’s green.

i’ve never seen nasturtiums like them.

but you had a way with plants.

they wanted to grow for you.

you gave them properly shaded homes

and nourished them with love and water.

you knew when to clip branches

so apricots would grow

and how to keep the roses blooming into fall.

you paid attention to all the delicate flowers

whose names i didn’t know.

you cultivated a chef’s level salad

brought barefoot into the kitchen

still warm from the high desert sun.

you kept the birdfeeders full for your singing friends

and knew the peach tree

should shade a hammock nap.

you wove your magic into your seeds

and planted them in so many gardens.

you knew the right soups for a soul-warming winter

and to add mint in chopped fruit for spring,

you knew the recipe for bringing family together,

and how to keep them smiling.

a variety of cheeses, crackers, nuts, and olives,

cold filtered water in a pretty blue pitcher,

colorful linens on a table outside,

every meal adorned with fresh flowers.

dessert trays to keep us lingering together

small treats arranged in a offering of such care.

your magic flashed out

from behind your blue glasses

in your sly sweet side eyed smiles

that held shy but radiant joy.

i wanted to have you over for dinner

to make you homemade pie in the dish you gave me

and show you how i can create a home too.

yours was the first home in santa fe i felt it with -

how settled and lived-in a house can feel.

full of family and creativity and years of cultivating.

mothering in a devotional way

to so many more than your sons.

i feel the way you nurtured and cared

in the way your son shows his love to me.

devotion and ease and service and tenderness

and all the small detailed ways

he nourishes the feeling of “home”.

i watched your love shine through him

in the various hospital rooms

as he straightened blankets and iv lines and masks

offering tea, food we’d brought, fresh water,

and small favors,

keeping coolers cold and fetching fresh clothing,

anything to make you more comfortable.

playing cards to make it feel like home,

suggesting books and crosswords and music to pass the time.

spending the night next to you, sleepless,

diligent to ensure you were still ohk.

we all felt helpless trying to make it all better.

trying to bring the magic you knew so well

into those sterile fluorescent rooms.

your heart stopped on monday afternoon.

and then it beat again.

we didn’t leave your side all night.

company was to be the magic

when the icu didn’t allow much else.

we held your hands and told you stories

and caressed your hair and sang you songs.

we hoped so hard to lure you back to us.

but our magic was never as pure as yours.

we gathered around you on wednesday afternoon

to see you onto another journey.

your boys held your hands and your face

while we held them.

i watched the artery in your neck

carry your heart beat slowly away

until it ceased to move at all.

you were as peaceful as your traveling nasturtiums

growing on and away to another green.

no one knew how to leave your room.

your magic seemed to be in the air around us,

dissolving into our skin.

we said such loving goodbyes to your body.

and finally we walked outside.

the blue of the sky and the blue of the mountains

and the blue of the birds in the bare winter trees

brilliantly bellowed the tune of your magic.

your joy for life came with us.

it’s with us still.

in me, today,

it’s thoughts of your nasturtiums.