5
Clementine is just five years old. She sits on the front walk, her sweaty curls plastered to her forehead. Her tiny fists clench four flower stems, wilting in the heat of her palm. She lays them out in front of her chanting “One for Mama one for Papa one for Evie one for me”. She gathers the flowers again, picking each one up carefully with small certain fingers. Her overalls are smudged with dirt and marmalade and she chirps a song that has no words.
25
When Clementine is twenty five she will follow a love overseas. She will bring home flowers every day, weaving them into her braids and tucking them in between book pages. Her bedside table is scattered with petals and her hands always smell of planting soil. He will love her for these things. Them, and the way she watches stars, scribbles in the margins of her poetry books, the way she sings while she sweeps.
45
When Clementine is forty five her garden will be the talk of the street. She will walk back and forth from the house, filling pitchers of water that spill over onto her overalls as she dodges her son's tricycle. In the spring her tulips and daffodils peep out first, dipping over onto the sidewalk and bobbing in the breeze. She kneels and sets down the pitcher. Her son pushes toy trucks in circles around her as she hums and turns the soil. The sun is out today, so later they sit together and make clover chains, he tells her stories and she sings to the sounds of the birds. When her husband comes home he finds them asleep on the porch, draped with their crowns and necklaces.
65
She is older now. The sun is setting and the open curtains allow the glowing light to flood the kitchen. Clementine delicately places flowers in a vase. She picks them up carefully with trembling fingers. The walk to her bedroom is long and the evening is quiet. She takes off her slippers and turns on her lamp. She sings a song she used to know as she slips on her nightgown. She hums until she falls asleep. Sometimes she forgets the tune.
