On a good day, her invitation seemed to arrive
for me with edges threaded in gilded floss. Sealed up
elegantly with our family crest (I am waxing dramatic
here on rose hips and fragrant hibiscus leaves).
She offered me the beautiful, fruited ceremony
of mothering at times. Well-mannered in pose.
Queenly in carriage. Smiling with pearl inlay.
Passing her love around like crudités, she fancied
me, on occasions. When I belonged there
at high tea, an utter sweetness steeped
those moments. My mother’s garden table
set with smiles, white linen, a sugar bowl, and bees.