On Monsoon season


My mother tells me that she is searching for an old photograph of my grandmother from the 1960s. In it, she is poised and silly and smiling in a camper. My mother says that we are so similar, and it brings her peace to be in between.

I sit and wonder about how everything is connected. A therapist tells me that my heart feels a lot of pain, and that this will be the struggle for all my life. I tell her thank you, because I do not know what to say. Later I drive to the dusty park and sit in the hot car and cry. The electric green desert plants of this place seems to always understand the heavier part. Lately it seems that the only thing to focus on is focus. I feel my breath slowing down to a dull hum while the world is speeding up. I feel as if I am watching history, or a dream I have had before. I sit on the deck and the rain patters the tin roof. The garden bed seedlings reassure me of something I cannot name. I bought myself a pottery wheel, and placed it out there next to his tool boxes and bike parts.

Sometimes I cover my hands in wet clay and bring my face inches from the cylinder between my palms, hypnotized by the forming of something new.

Other days I turn it on just to slowly watch it spin.

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