I Wore This Dress Today for You, Mom,

breezy, floral, dancing with color soft, silky, flows as I walk Easter Sunday and you always liked to get dressed, go for brunch, "maybe there's a good movie playing somewhere?" Wrong religion, we were not church-goers, but New Yorkers who understood the value of a parade down 5th Avenue, bonnets in lavender, powder blues, pinks, hues of spring, the hope it would bring. We had no religion but we did have noodle kugel, grandparents, dads who could fix fans, reach the china on the top shelf, carve the turkey. That time has passed. You were the last to go, mom, and I still feel bad I never got dressed up for you like you wanted me to. I had things, things to do. But today in L.A.— hot the way you liked it—those little birds you loved to see flitting from tree to tree— just saw one, a twig in its mouth, preparing a bed for its baby—might still be an egg, I wish you were here. I've got a closet filled with dresses I need to show you.