Memory

I hold your memory
in the glass vase
that once held
my mother's ashes.

I don't think she would mind.
You two were always close.

And besides, she is now
in the columbarium
under the hibiscus tree
covered most days
with Spanish moss.

The weekly maintenance man
makes his rounds,
your memory
overflowing the vase.

I tell him not to bother.
It will just get worse tomorrow.