Mosaic | Mambo | The Silent Din | Love's Song

Flor de la Canela (The Cinnamon Flower)

All the Roses | In the Dark | Night Tremens

Flor de la Canela (The Cinnamon Flower)

© Carl Hathwell

She caught us up into her dream.
Humming content around the house,
Her wispy but honeyed voice
Would break into some forties standard
Or sing a line or two from a Latino hit:
"La rosa caminaba la flor de la canela..."

She wore, on Sunday, a simple white sheath dress
And clusters of white paper roses
In her lustrous black hair.
An Aztec vestal walked the garden green
Whose palms and ferns, arranged by her hand,
Now fanned homage to her reign.
The outside world seemed not to exist.

Volcanic was her temper.
I saw her grab Renaldo by his wrist and ankle,
Twirl him in the air and let him fly.

She asked me how I liked our house.
"I don't," I said. "It's way too small."
She said, "But this is my casita."
A self-inflicted wound never heals.

 She doesn't recognize us anymore.
Still we visit and she smiles,
A truly sweet but distant smile.
What dream could she be living now?