A Pink Macaron
Two macarons remained in the box.
I left the lemon one for the person
who loves lemon and took the pink one
imagining it either strawberry or raspberry
Ah, not a berry at all. It was Rose.
I nibbled and my grandmother materialized.
For such a small pink cookie
it was loaded with recollection
Her name, the flowers in her yard,
the funeral home,
the funeral too
painful to attend.
She was not a pink woman.
But, she was a Rose.
She gave me unconditional love
and rhubarb pies with cold milk.
Paris 2017 #57