October 7, 2023
On the 11th anniversary of my mother's death, this one is dedicated to her
It’s the tiny things you remember when someone meets death and leaves,
how she was a wildflower, a poppy at the roadside and distant in certain seasons.
My nomadic mother, dancing from desert to desert. Sometimes she had children. Sometimes that place stood empty.
I cling to her reflection like mine, sharp and fractured, sometimes beautiful in its brokenness.
Until I meet death too, She will greet me from the bunches of poppies swaying in the desert.