“That’s Columbine. The purple one is a Bleeding Heart. That over there? That’s an Iris, see the black ink marks?” My father is naming all of the flowers in the fields around our house. “California Poppy. MissionBells. That one’s a Buttercup, put it under your chin to see if you are in love. The green is Miner’s Salad, you can eat it.” It tastes cool and wet. “Lupine and Clover and Fairy Lanterns” - everywhere color to be named. I have these same wildflowers tattooed spiraling up my left arm. As I type they remind me of where I come from. They remind me to be honest. They remind me to name the names. The red skinned trees are madrone. The shrubs are manzanita. My father is a harbor from my mother’s anger. My father is a raging storm. I am 50, I search for a happy memory of my parents together. I find happy memories of my mother, see her laughing in her peasant dress. I can smell yeast and flour on her hands. I have happy memories of my father. But never the two of them in the same frame. I call Lark, there has to be one memory tucked in there.
