Seventeen

Moore 53 Sheila Moore Seventeen Precisely at five, as if arriving for cocktails, Madame Gardenia makes her appearance. Enrobed in cream, she seems to demand compliments. I give them to her unreservedly. "Come see this!" I beg. Sabrina, bewigged and costumed, is struggling with a prop bag and coat sleeves. One glance and, "That's nice." She eyes the window, then her watch. Her pacing taps impatience on the tiles. Slam! Knock...There's Hamlet, pimpled and apologetic, escorting her to a blue Subaru. Miffed, and now alone, I mix a drink arid toast Madame; and then, red-faced, recall an August day When I, seventeen, like my Sabrina, gave scant and paltry tribute to my mother's zinnias. Fringed purples they were, regimental and double-rowed, their composted bed deep-dug and loamy. No Hamlet waited. Instead, there were my nails to paint. Was it Frosted Fuschia? Or Plum Passion? 54 the minnesota review My look, too, was brief, the blunt comment perfunctory. What were her purple zinnias to me? Mother's eyes, sharp sad, filled up with sudden hurt. She stooped; stained fingers pinched a nearby spider mum. Now, displacing pain, I bring plant food to my Madame, and groom her waxy leaves and woody arms. I sigh. Then I smile, richer for a new perspective. I contemplate Sabrina growing beans. Time, full-circled now, completes its pass. I lift my glass to Seventeen, and its own gardenias. ...