White Hibiscus

WHITE HIBISCUS


They lay where they fall, lining the path to my Mother's door like so many corpses.
Petals, glistening white in the sun just a few hours ago, have now turned a fleshy beige,reminiscent of spilled tea.
Twisting and turning around themselves they spiral inward as if to protect their glorious red centers.
Curling edges remind me of  Belgian lace and the tissue itself folds ever so gently  -a thousand tiny wrinkles.
The skin of grandmothers..

I thought of my own Grandmother's frail arms as she lay, a nursing home  prisoner of her own soflty decaying body.
Her Skin,as soft and thin as the finest rice paper krinklies and shrinks like  petals of white hibiscus.
The red in the center of fallen dead flowers darkens like crushed berries,  spilled wine stains on tiny shriveled arms
The petals have slowly closed sealing inside thier  deep red centers -  like worn out wombs--
never again to reveal their secrets of passion and youth.

I collect the dead flowers and gingerly preseve them, more fall each day,  until my house is overflowing.
 I place them  in tissue paper and then in fine silk,  I lay them to rest in beautiful boxes
-- tombs for hibiscus, coffins for flowers.
They have taken over my house, a cemetary of dead decaying beauty but still I keep and protect them , occasionally unwrapping  only to marvel at their sad eroding lovlieness.
 Beautiful fragile mummies.

I think of my Grandmother, my Mother...........my self.