They dried its flowers and stems. 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 60 years. I bring down a bundle and she, before she lost herself, stands at the stove, boils a pot of water and grabs a handful as the water simmers. She makes tea she makes tea for her and I but doesnt drink a sip she watches me drink she smiles. Now years later chamomile will remind me of them; their home and their garden. How fitting. This flower holds many salves Its simple yet honored Its humble and enduring. Chamomile becomes the symbol of my roots.