Butter Yellow

Butter yellow.

Like the squares my mother forks into 

for pie crusts. 

or what my dad softens 

to house the garlic and parsley

during Friday night family dinners

for warmed bread.

Yellow, 

Like the color of my 

Grandmother’s tulip 

that grew in the bed 

that spring day 

when I decided to leave.  

“It is ok,”

She was saying.

The tulips had been gone

for years

and so had she,

for that matter

but one day

she came

in yellow

to say

it would be okay.

And it was

Indeed it was.