My mother is an amethyst.
No flighty lavender or pale pinks for her.
She is rich and deep and smells of cookies. Always.
and slightly of the tang of warm grapes whose vine
crawled up the half fencepost in the backyard of our childhood home
next to the puzzle-piece garden beds my father built.
My father is the deepest calmest blue of an ocean
after a storm has passed and silt has settled.
He is steady and self-assured and speaks from his core.
He is lemon pound cake and clean grout and straight lines
and the booming laugh that the older of my two brothers inherited.
And they make me wonder what color I will be when I am them
and they are gone
and my children stop to think of me in snatches of memories.
10.28.25
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