Bromeliad

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The house
you lived in,
the house
you loved in
sat at the bottom
of the staircase
behind
a mantle
of greenery.

Under the metal steps
lived,
and prospered
beautiful
pink
bromeliads.

It was in your garden
where I learned
about these flowers.

As a child,
I always admired you,
and your dedication
to your artistry,
even as you described
how your passions
distanced you
from your father.

After your death,
I hope your garden
is taken care of still,
by some ghostly presence,
or the tantrums of nature,
habitual
in the eastern mountains of México,
where you lived.

Today,
I still hope
that the bromeliads
continue to bloom
in beautiful,
vivacious,
pink colors.

It has been
eight months
since you died.

I hope your flowers,
still, breathe,
and that through them,
your spirit
lives,
too.

Your life is imprinted
on the walls of that house,
the cats that you fostered,
the people you loved.

Your life
is imprinted
in the air.