Mother In The Garden

Mother tends to blooms as she has done for as long as I am able to recall. She stands, supported by prosthetic knees, the heat of August heavy on her brow. I want to call her in, afraid the sun will cause a stroke. I think of last year's fall, how she lost her balance trimming trees. I try to call her in, but by a row of roses, she cannot quite hear or see. I hurry down the potted back porch stairs, past the plum-stained bench and phlox-filled tins. Transfixed, one foot into eternity, one foot upon the earth, she turns and grins, her blue eyes brilliant and beyond my cares.