"Mom?"
"Yes, Larry."
"What's your favorite color?"
Sigh -- "I don't have a favorite color. I like all colors the same."

She went back to weeding and bent over tugging dandelions, thistles, and grass out from between the cherry tomatoe plants.

I sat on the grass on the edge of the garden in the shadow cast by the rows of corn and dabbed my feet in the chilled well water coming out of the hose. The water flowed down the furrows to feed the corn and beans and peppers. A few streams of light found their way through the shade, reflecting off the rippling water to stroll across the corn leaves above me.

My Mom stood up to stretch among the corn stalks. Her face was flushed from working in the hot humid weather and sweat was on her forehead, kept out of her eyes by a sweat band made from a rolled white hankerchief. Her granite-grey hair was tied in a bun and wisps of it spilled out around her ears.

"Why don't you come help me here."
"Oh-kay."

She bent back down to finish off the row she had been working on. I started on the next. After several minutes of doing no more than pulling the leaves off the dandelions and leaving the roots to grow back, I said, "Can we go in now?"

"I guess. You go ahead, I'll be in in a minute"

I got up out of the shade. As I walked across the the summer-dry grass to the back door, I remembered yellowed newspaper clippings about my mothers award-winning 4-H gardens. I wondered if, durring those high school days in Albequerque, she labored as hard on her garden as she did in Michigan.

When I got to the back door I threw the screen-door open and let it slam behind me as I went in. The shade in the house was relieving; only reflected light filtered in through the window.

I found my mom's charm-bracelet sitting on the kitchen table next to her empty coffeecup and her Pall Mall cigarets. I sat down and picked up the bracelet. A lifetime of silver memories jinkled on that silver chain: a roadrunner from her home state -- New Mexico; a rocket and sun-burst from Dad's work in California; baby pictures set in miniature silver frames; a book that opened, with a verse inside; a bike with turning wheels; and nearly a hundred other charms. She bought charms to remind herself of places she liked to be; she hadn't bought many since we transfered to Michigan. I counted through the whole bracelet, working the charms that had moving pieces and passing over the ones that didn't.

I came back to the roadrunner; I could see it dashing across New Mexican scrub desert in dry, warm air. I remembered that dry air evaporating the sweat of my skin in cool flashes; I didn't mind the heat. My mom grew up in that arid climate where the sun shines three-hundred and sixty days a year. I could see her admiring the craftsmanship in the silver and turquoise jewlery shops in Santa Fe and Old Town Albequerque. She would spend hours under the porch of the Palace of the Govornors bartering with the indians for the squash blossom necklesses and conch belts they had layed out on blankets under the thick vegas that held up the adobe porch roof. She seldom bought anything. The stark sunshine and the Sandia mountains enlivened her. I remembered chilly morning air blushing her cheeks and nose as we walked on paths through an Indian pueblo ruin, looking for tiny shards of pottery. She wore her short red wool jacket, a silver clip to hold her grey hair and a few turquoise rings and bracelets on her fingers and wrists. I wished that we could be there.

Mom came through the back door, tromped up the three stairs to the kitchen and said, "So, do you have lunch all ready?"

"No."

She smiled acceptingly and started to walk through the kitchen door. I asked, "Mom, when will Dad be home?"

She turned and looked me in the eye, "probably not till late. I plan to have dinner ready by seven, o.k."

I nodded. She turned back and walked through the dining and living rooms to her bedroom, to wash up.

When she came back her face was fresh and tight from water and soap and her hair was tended.

"Give me a hug," she said.

I stood with a smile and hugged her tight with my chin on her shoulder. She was comforting.

By Larry Baltz