““Almost Easter Shaking bone meal from my bare hands into the rose bed where only one bush grows, I feel as if I’m scattering my father’s ashes all over again. This month marks the seventh year my father has lain in my garden, his ashes in my hands still as palpable as bone meal or thorns. Easter Sunday, I will hide an egg behind his ear. Jesus will call down to him to get up and play. He won’t. But the rose bush that is turning green, this rose will sink its roots a little deeper in the earth and in a few months drop its petals like so many red tears. — Felicia Mitchell””
