When Dementia Came to Puerto Rico and all the Flowers Died

He told me
about how his grandmother--
His mother's mother--
and the last time he saw her.

How every family member
had a recipe for pasteles,
but she made the best.

How her garden was lush
and always full of sweet promise.
He could remember how the flowers smelled.

He swore that he could recite every story
she told him.
He could close his eyes,
and remember,

but now the tears came instead.

He remembered the last time
he saw her.

How the flowers were all dead.

How dirt and stone replaced the garden.

But he could see her in the doorway.

He remembered a cold, angry stare,
instead of a warm embrace.

There was no food cooking.

She cursed at him.

And then his father
grabbed his arm and pulled him
toward the car.

He never saw her again
before death came.

He couldn't save her.
Her couldn't care for her.

They were too poor.

He was too young.

"Never again," he vowed.

I grabbed my love's hand and clutched it tightly.

"Yes, son. I will help you pay the florist
for your wedding day."

----

~Torres