teeth

i

[ i ] my mother was the sun. she kissed warmth into my skin and breathed life into my lungs. liquid gold ran through her veins and happiness seeped out of her in a never ending haze of brilliance. nurturing new life came naturally to her, so our backyard was a glorious garden of every flower imaginable. roses, daisies, chrysanthemums, sunflowers— they all flourished under my mother's gentle and loving touch, as if she were life itself.

(but life isn't fair)

[ ii ] yellow always brightens up a room, she used to say, an incandescent smile on her face that would make the room feel just a little bit brighter and warmer. when she started spending nights at the hospital, my father and i would go visit her everyday and he brought her a new sunflower for the vase beside her bed every time. to warm up these cold white walls, he would joke and i would see the cracks the pain had carved into his soul. i worried for him. i worried for me. what life can grow without the sun?

[ iii ] my father isn't one to cry. he didn't cry the day we received the phone call from the hospital, saying we would no longer need to visit (or bring sunflowers), nor any of the days after. my mother was the light in his eyes /she was gone. his eyes were dead.

[ iv ] i remember the ceremony with painful clarity. with each shovel of dirt being put back into place in the earth, i was reminded of the garden. of her garden. what irony was it that my mother, who cultivated so many blooms, would ultimately be condemned do so for eternity? my ribs were breaking with the force of trying to restrain my spasming diaphragm while strangled hiccups ripped their way free from the confines of my throat. i wanted to scream until the arteries in my throat burst and blood was dripping from my lips. this wasn't right. this wasn't fair. my mother wasn't supposed to be gone yet. her hands weren't supposed to be stiff and cold. she was supposed to wake up and smile at me when i went to her side at the hospital the day of the phone call.

afterwards i went home and tore apart the garden in a fit of uncontrollable fury. blood and dirt and tears mashed together, smearing my face, arms, and legs with coppery earth. these flowers didn't deserve my mother. she gave them her time, her love, and her attention, but i would be damned if they took her body too.

[ v ] ON A HUMID JUNE AFTERNOON we planted my mother into the ground like all the seeds she sowed in her lifetime /the sun was bright and i pretended not to notice as my father slowly put down his shovel and step into the grave with her, leaving me behind. alone.