Molli Gould
The Love That Gathers Here
At the Como Conservatory, the tall lilies and amaryllis in the Sunken Garden.
Fragrance like cinnamon or sandalwood wafts outside of the entrance.
The azaleas remind me of North Carolina.
The ferns, seeds, and palms used for medicines, cocoa, oils, spices—
I touch the green leaves that kiss with dreams of pomegranate, fig, and lime. Sacred
tracing back to the origins.
My mom practices the cello
My dad canoes
makes blueberry pancakes
walks the dog
My stepmom makes tamales
paints a portrait
My grandpa plays cards
says the blessing at dinner
my grandma makes pottery
grows a garden
grows a garden
I touch the leaves, petals, and bark around me and the laugh in my throat feels like
something precious. Something like returning home to loved ones nodding.
“You’ve been building up different parts of yourself, and now you’re collecting
yourself, bringing the pieces together,” David says.
Holding that dream of a path unfolding within me, and finally unraveling like a
scroll, like a train of a wedding dress, and I return, finally visible, bearing gifts.
It’s been a long winter. I grew apart from my past, and my room broke off like a
glacier, and floated away. And all these places I thought I could return to—
walks with my grandparents on Cecil Street, the picnic table where my family would
gather for summer barbeques, Lake Vermillion—the love that gathered there
now lifts up, spreads its wings, flies out into a wider circle, and I’m trying to send
out a signal, pull us back together again.
I’ve been in a fairyland this past five years, time moving differently. Now I’m back,
but everything has changed. My grandpa lies in the nursing home bed, holding all
that time in his delicate hands.
Molli Gould has emerged from a cocoon made of lamplight and patchwork quilts with an MFA degree in Creative Writing from Hamline University. Now, she is ready to fly paths of flowers and to see the world with new eyes.