Half Towel 

by Joyce Keokham

When people ask why I don’t like flowers 

The easy answer is to say with us, they wilt

When my partner asks

I tell them about the first bouquet I ever received

When I was a sophomore in high school 

and I was given a dozen noteless red roses

When this anonymous admirer had me embarrassed 

Not knowing what to do with such expensive weeds

When it made me think of my mom

and how she might like the roses more than me

When I gave the bouquet, a card made out to her 

Signing it as a gift from my father, my brother, and me

When I secretly re-gifted them to her

She scowled at me, thinking I had bought them myself

When I supposed I was doing a kind thing 

She lectured me on superficial spending

When she swore that this senseless wasteful kind of 

behavior made me undeserving of anything beautiful

When I ask myself why I don’t like flowers 

The answer starts at my age eight

When my father would drive around with spare 

plastic bags he’d use to cover parking meters

When I shopped exclusively from sales

and clearance racks and the closets of my neighbors

When my mother finally bought me a towel 

with a sailor moon print on it

When I stared at her terry clothed face 

the whole highway ride home

When my mother then took the towel 

to cut and hem in half

When I mourned over the frivolous design 

Not able to understand this need to ration

When my mother disciplined me

because I could not stop crying over the loss of a pretty girl’s face

When I wanted a towel to bring me joy 

but instead I resented every time I used

When my father would make fried rice 

Red and vivid like a bowl of sunrise

When I asked him how it was possible

He revealed a stack of flattened ketchup packets

When leftover condiments from McDonalds 

looked less like trash and more like magic

When I would start hoarding sauces myself 

and had to hear my roommates think it gross

When my mother had cancer

There were no blossoms anywhere, not even to celebrate her remission

When I now make a dollar beyond my surviving 

and call home to offer my mom a trip to the doctors

When my mother rejects it

and tells me to save for more important things

When I tell her there is nothing

that could possibly be more important

The last thing I think of 

are flowers