When she thought of her mother, she thought of lilies -
Remembered one tucked behind her ear, the roses
in her cheeks still intact as she taught Alice how to press violets.

When her mother was sick, Alice would bring her mounds of violets
And they'd string them into chains. Her mother's cheeks were white as lilies,
Her smile thin and wilted as Dad's week-old offering of yellow roses.

At the graveside, relatives glared at her father's yellow roses,
Shining out among the mild white lilies. Alice wished she'd brought violets,
But when she pilfered a bloom to press, it was one of her mother's lilies.

Such were the flowers pressed between the lost pages of her childhood: lilies, violets and roses.