"We started this last summer"
are the words my mother mutters
to herself
as she kneels down
on the pathway leading
to the front door.
I know the routine and brace
myself by putting the grocery bags
on top of the washing machine.
Without a mind, my mother claws her fingers
into the garden under the hard earth
in order to reach
beneath each flowers stem.
But this time it is much more forceful.
"Remember? We started this last summer"
are the words my mother shouts
to the clumps of dirt and flower buds around her.
This is not like every summer.
Where we go through the same routine of
moving every.single.fucking.flower from
right to left, left to right.
"We started this last summer"
are the words my mother
no longer knows how to speak
for she is sobbing around herself.
I reach out and stroke the disappearing hairs
by her forehead. Her hair is still long,
just a little bit thinner
than last summer.
-sonja lynn mata
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