My mother gave me a sprig of rosemary.

She put it in the hand that I'd been holding tight in hers.

She told me it would never wither,

Never die.

Then she boarded a silver train.

She never said goodbye.

I have held the rosemary

In my childish sweaty palm

For thirty years,

And I feel that smelling it

Has daubed my tears away,

And brought me to a sage understanding 

Of the places I have been.

And it has never withered

Or turned brown.

The magic sprig has stayed alive,

And so has the vivid memory

Of my mother.

She never said goodbye.

-jenn