I can imagine my mother loving Logan’s Market on St. Catherine Street: the bustle, food, gifts, food, jostle of vibrant shoppers, food— I can see her inspecting a crimson beaded necklace from Colombia and hungering for a cinnamon roll, forbidden by diabetes. Now she is buried in Cave Hill surrounded by the vibrancy of cardinals and the hushed stirring of spirits. Every cardinal I see is a sign of her, her passions, her curiosity, her daily question, “what are you thinking about?’ when I was a child, my eyes carrying dreams. I never believed in death, but I longed to see angels.
Today I bought a necklace of glass hearts, red and clear, the center heart of oxidized copper, a turquoise color, my mother’s favorite stone, a sky stone, a good luck stone. My love is glass. My heart is breakable.
All red belongs to my mother.
