Sarah Bartusch

Mother’s Day, 2000

 

The night before Mother’s Day

Jen and I snuck into the back field

of a tulip farm

and plucked all the volunteer tulips

we could hold.

We armed ourselves

with the yellows, pinks, and reds

-slunk away

into the spring night

under a tepid sky.

We schlepped the rogue blooms

onto the floorboard

of my 1976 Dodge Aspen,

then spread them out amongst

my parent’s living room,

crudely fashioned the words, I love you

in flapping and bending stems with tired petals

across the hardwood floor.

Just

large enough for mom to see in the morning.

Just

in case she had forgotten.