The Purple Glass

The Purple Glass

‘It has no use’”, 
my mother said, 
when she took 
the purple glass
from the highest shelf
and placed it in 
my trembling left hand.

Too small for flowers
and shallow for wine,
mellow and musky,
the color of wilting violets
withering to the 
thinnest lavender essence. 

Yet, it mirrored itself 
in my bedroom window— 
a soft amethyst wash
in the Tennessee sunset.

I remember her night gown 
bright as the lip of an orchid,
her lilac perfume 
wafting in her wake

until it slowly…. 
faded from her,

until she no longer 
remembered my face—
my name—-

and that she gave me
this purple glass—
 
“Just something beautiful to look at,” she said.

And place gently
on her grave stone.

“That’s all,”
she said.