My dad used our time for teaching. A weekend spent in a Motel 6 or on a boat made of swelling wood that never left dock. 

Each time I worked hard to learn his lesson; how to blow my nose, catch a fish, calculate a good tip, to always make the sign of the cross when you see an ambulance. 

I never met God myself, but to this day I touch forehead, chest, shoulder, shoulder, lips under the flashing lights. 

And his favorite— Forgiveness. 

I plucked this word from his mouth as a child, and carried it with me everywhere I went. I thought of her as a bloom more beautiful and rare than any, evergreen. Small hands gripping the stem like a weapon of mass protection. 

Until she dropped a petal.

I saw it there, at the base of the bridge— it looked like the love of my mothers life.

And again, one floated off into the breeze and landed in Arizona.

Another, falling under the shadow of a dinner plate dahlia, watered by blood.

Bare and wilting, one more drowned beneath that swelling wood.

And finally, it was him, in a hospital bed.

I look down at my hands, no longer small, but still gripping that now bare stem.

Today, I looked at a field of Ammi, and I felt it. I felt forgiveness unfolding everywhere, without a show, ordinary and bountiful.

Forgiveness breeds forgiveness breeds love breeds forgiveness, reseeding herself without our help and sprouting anew each year.

In the hot, late summer sun, she will petrify and remain, evergreen.