sunday | july 26, 2020.
memories of my mother.
a leftover seed from lunch turned into a tree
it leaned upon the kitchen window
first inside, then outside
rolling fog and burning sun
in days of healing and maturing
an avocado tree grows in san francisco
dinner simmers in a pot
my mother’s fingers reminiscent of chopped garlic
and vanilla lotion
a productive hum comes from the kitchen
where orchids glow in the setting sun above the sink
sunny days arrive and coffee steeps in the filter
a quietness comes through the window
in cold mornings
sleeping in on soft pillows and blankets
and i knew love was always there
it made magnolias grow and succulents stretch
birds come chirping and forgiveness pours in like
a summer breeze
flowers bloom and die and the rain still brings life
no matter how the plants choose to take in its water
I miss you like steam misses the warm enclosure of a mug of hot tea and blossoms that fade away from spring into summer.
Jacqueline Arrieta-Peixoto, 24 years old, Filipinx-Brazilian nonbinary femme, born and raised in San Francisco, writes nostalgic poetry and personal prose, and operates an online art business specializing in custom visual artwork.