Wildflower Days

Driving across country,
trekking down the dusty road,
the western sun hot at my back,
pushing me on.
Ahead the shimmering black
ribbon winds down Route 66.
The smell of wildflowers tracks
me through the open
windows, like a scratch
and sniff picture postcard:
a summer to remember.

At last, mama greets me
at the door, white apron
painted in a blood-red collage
of fragrant marinara.
Vapors of Sicily color my eyes.
As she embraces me, I
drown in her Parmesan tears.

How many years does it take
to turn a memory into stone?
How many tears does it take
to drown the pain of leaving home?

Mama filled me up with her
Sicilian sun, her knowing eyes
stabbing my wayward heart.
I tried to read her sad Sicilian eyes:
Could she really see all the way
from Boston to L.A.?