by Megan Joy
The lavender, I like.
Its scent is a halo
and you don’t seem pressed thin anymore.
Months ago in sterile rooms we pondered
what could sever the linings.
Rows of velvety red vials
and diagrams of your veins mapped a distant path.
But, back to the lavender.
It trails behind tear streaks
and recalls a warm wind, a light step, a brush of skin,
a golden sun setting above you.
We thought it nice and old-fashioned,
like sipping sweet tea on the old porch swing.
Is it the lavender?
The halo shines a little too low.
It washes out the curves in your cheeks
where color used to pool.
The lavender left an impression
but beneath your shoulders the shadows carry
the weight of a tangible end
where even lavender cannot follow.
A Walk To Remember 