The Second Year

I’m not crying…you’re crying (too)


I was born on a Sunday. You died on a Sunday. Coincidence can feel significant. That I was your kehinganda. I am. Some tenses still confuse me. You are not the past tense of being my mother. You are my mother. Tenses confuse me.

I planted two varieties of pentas under the window of the room where you slept: a vivid pink and a blush pink. They joined walking irises and lavender. A feast for the eyes and the nose. Perfume used to waft through the air, filling the house, and it could not last. I said it had done its work, given its love where it could. Where it should. And it should not persist where it was unloved. You will understand.

I have added gaura to the garden. That’s new this year. Poppies. Those are also new. I have plants from loved friends, grown from cuttings, shared with…

View original post 1,062 more words

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: