He tells me its name
in his native tongue.

I do not understand, at first
until I smell its fragrance
floral and sweet;
subtle.

Chamomile.

He directs me upstairs
in broken English;
I pray I understand enough.

"Grab a bunch,
wrapped
in newspaper."

There in the attic
of the duplex that
two brothers 
made homes,

I find the dried stems
and flower -

Grown in the garden
that's fed family
for 70 years.

I bring down a bundle
and she, before 
she lost herself,
stands at
the stove,
boils a pot of water
and places a handful
into the simmering water.

She makes tea.

She makes tea for 
her and I.
I take a sip
as her cup sits
she will not drink.

She watches me
and smiles.

Now
years later
chamomile 
will remind me of them;
their home and their 
garden.

How fitting

This flower 
holds many 
salves

it is simple yet
honored

Its humble
and enduring.

Chamomile 
becomes
the symbol
of my roots.