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>>lattice, garlic, zeppelin, opera, undone

I remember the pink tea roses spilling their splendor loosely over the lattice beside our porch when I was a kid - Mom loved those roses, those little touches of class to remind us we were better than our cheap shoes and our ratty blue shag rugs and our house always stinking of garlic from bargain-brand spaghetti sauce for dinner two or three times a week. I remember her voice, sultry and powerful, so suited to sing smoky jazz in a 1920's zeppelin circling the sky or to send an entire opera house into tears, instead singing simple lullabies over and over and over again. I remember, as I lay my bundle of roses on the patch of fresh-lain sod at the base of that cold stone monument. And I am undone.

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