She Never Does

Sorry I didn’t respond.

It was mostly because

I had lost

my mind in this

triple digit

heat

and the discovery

that greener grass

was a joke because,

most often,

it’s airbrushed

or patchy, or plastic.

With rare,

angry rain, the basins

flood, and the birds

bathe in dusty

puddles and leave me

plastic beads

from friendship bracelets

in the bare yard.

And I ask them

if they have ever been

to the Pacific Northwest.

“Cousins”, they correct.

I think of home

and the gentle pattering

of rain on my neck

and how strangely

alone

I feel without it.

Sorry I didn’t

respond.

I was staring

out the window

for too long,

waiting, as if a toddler

peering through the curtains

to catch a glimpse

of their mother’s

car finally returning

from work.

And I am counting

seconds until she opens

the door,

but she never does.

***

Hello, wanderer,

Mom is earthside, but sometimes it feels like she's worlds away. I've been unburying old photos. We planted this rosebush last time I visited my rainiest home. I like to think of it when I miss her.

xoxo, for now

-your friend, trying to stay cool