"the colors of flax..."

her daughter surveys the stacks of beige cloth
neatly folded and tucked into the cedar-lined
shelves  of a small closet, hidden under the stairwell

"what was she thinking," this once-a- girl,
now-a-woman, asks aloud to no one in particular,
standing back and appraising "just another"
cupboard waiting to be inventoried, and tagged,
for the estate sale at the end of the week.

how many shades of grayish-brown cloth could
one woman need, or want, she muses, and turns
towards the cabinet under the bay window...where
the silver candlesticks and Wedgewood platters
still wait for a special occasion to strut their stuff...
dismissing the "brown cloth" as undesirable

but i'd lingered with the carefully folded lengths
of linen...fine, soft, crisp, rough, silken...each a
different version of itself...Quaker plain and
Shaker honest....i'd reached into a treasure chest
of simplicity and grace...trailed a fingertip
along their folds and selvage...sigh, and in that
sighing, betrayed my love for a mother that
wasn't mine...

her mother had been a woman who loved nuance....
the subtle shifts in tone, texture, shade, and draping...
a woman who delighted in what was hidden to
the eye of a girl who'd always wondered why her mother
never wore purple, or fuschia, or peacock blue....

" i'd like these," I say quietly...and with the distracted
wave of her daughter's hand, they were no longer orphans...
and in some way...I could never explain... neither was i