I can still hear her voicetalking about them, bloominglike a bright gentle flowerfrom the bushes along the greens and fairwayssweet and slow as asouthern afternoon, spiced uplike the wine-soaked pork chopsand etouffet she loved to make I can still feel her hands,floral with lotion and softas butterfly’s wings, plusalmost as fragile,navigating the click ofknitting needlesContinue reading “Azalea”