The Sunday Whirl


I wonder if they have screams, as I sliced into the plant I’m cleaning from the garden; almost hearing my mothers voice, “it’s important to eat your greens”, so of course I did.

I must have heard my mother’s voice even when safe in her womb, a rarely fertilized set of eggs waiting every few years to be useful. I wonder if she ever thought the burns of her flesh, the blood, even the love, was worth it. I thought it was when I bore my own children, but I’m not sure of her thoughts.

I walked back out to the garden and chose a rose, thoughtlessly picking petals off and tossing them to travel downstream in the water from the garden hose. Thoughts of my mother and her pain at the end are the pins that prick me from time to time, never able to forget.