memories of my mother. by Jackie Arrieta-Peixoto

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.

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