Bluebonnet Memory

On a cold sunny March day,
Mom bundled my brother and me into our jackets,
into the ’55 Hudson, jade green,
then ran back in for the camera.
From behind the wheel,
Dad reached for Mom’s hand,
both smiling like newlyweds.
Out of the city into the country,
around a curve, he found a field of solid sapphire,
eased the car onto the shoulder.
The bonnets spread their vivid blue,
a vast blanket that billowed like
when Mom fluffed it as she made our beds.
Gingerly, we tread a few feet into the field,
Mom led the way as Dad hung back,
leaned on the big car.
I turned to see him still smiling
as he watched us walk among the flowers.
Not long after that sunny day,
we moved from Texas.
I never saw bluebonnets again
though the memory of
my dad’s smile still lingers.

These days I think of nature watching us
birds or stars, animals or trees,
and I suspect that day the bluebonnets
looked on us and smiled.

Andrea Jones Walker

Andrea Jones Walker, a retired English teacher, lives in Pensacola, Florida, and loves all things nature. She spends her leisure time taking long walks, swimming, and beachcombing, where she finds much to write about. She’s published four books, and her collection of poetry is forthcoming.