In honor of my great-grandmother, Elizabeth Sawyer, who raised the best mother I could ever have.

This week during the steaming afternoon 
of a Delaware Wednesday in late May 
my mother told me she hated the in-

between of spring and summer. “everything
is just green, there is nothing else,” but I 
tend to like the various shades of green;

some deeply saturated in the shade 
of maples, others pale and glistening 
in the sun's glance. I noticed a sole gold

iris standing stoic and proud to be
the last of her kind this season. despite
such strength she possesses, she is always

positioned perfectly like a vintage 
painting you might find in a northeastern
continental mansion. she beckons the 

neighboring bees and insects to collect
their pollen; lapping up the light of the
sun like an overheated dog. she waves

her flowing petals in the slightest gust
of wind but does not fall subject to its
powers. I say to my mother, “at least

we have Gigi with us still,” she nods and
we share a few silent breaths before soon
bidding the old world outside our house an

early goodnight.