The day you died it rained/snowed/rained/snowed all day, even though it was late

April—springtime in the Rockies—

I didn’t know then how much greener it was on my side of the mountains

but at the same time—I did

One year before you died your daughter made me see spring anew, made me see shades of

green I’d never seen before;

her love colors my entire existence

It snowed/rained/snowed/rained for days after your death and when the clouds cleared as April

gave way to May—the green was still there, but this spring all I see is purple—your favorite color I was told—the green was still there, but suddenly I couldn’t imagine seeing the green at all if the purples weren’t there to highlight it—

choke cherries, serviceberries, gambel oaks all somehow turning entire hillsides purple before

exploding into tender chartreuse

***

We stroll around a drought stricken reservoir on an overcast Sunday, Mother’s Day, but your

daughter no longer has a mother

so she takes careful photos of tiny purple flowers surrounded by green fields

***

Mothers are the hardest and easiest people to love, they teach us the complexities of loving

and, sometimes too soon, they teach us when to let go, how to say goodbye, what grief is

Your daughter tells me you were a difficult woman, a complicated person to love; a complex,

complete person she loved as you can only love your mother

I

am a difficult woman;

and

she

loves me the purplest

Claire, thank you for Elise