Part of a Legacy

I take pillows outdoors to sun them as my mother did.  “Keeps bedding fresh,” she said.  It was April then, too— buttercups fluffing their frail sails, one striped bee humming grudges, a crinkle of jonquils.  Weeds reclaimed bare ground. All of these leaked somehow into the pillows, looking odd where they simmered all day, the size of hams, out of place on grass.  And at night I could feel some part of my mother still with me in the warmth of my face as I dreamed baseball and honeysuckle, sleeping on sunlight.