My ex’s mom, who died before he and I met, folded towels a certain way. He folded them that way, and now so do I, and every time I do, I think of her. Strange how we never know what little pieces of ourselves will live on, or in whom.
dream jobs:
• lighthouse hermit
• bejeweled heiress
• gnome doctor who lives in a tree
• magician who is in love with a rival magician
• cute witch who runs a combination bakery / flower shop
My mom and I have been reading poetry together. I read her @maggiesmithpoet's Good Bones, and she cried and cried.
We read Sandra Cisneros and she cried and cried.
Go read a poem with your mom.
My mother is a gardener. Humans find her sharp, abrasive, but plants flourish in her hands. We had devils ivy that would quiver suddenly, growing so fast it moved. Birds landed on her fingertips as she seethed at passers by for simply looking in the yard. I was raised by a storm.
due to personal reasons I’m retiring into a Ghibli film, where I’ll eat ramen and ride water dragons and fall in love with a charming violinist and my only worry is whether I can correctly guess which parents are mine after they both get turned into pigs.