Wearing Foxgloves

in december 1940, mama wrote that the child shoe bore would be a poet.
she reasoned that her being a writer would naturally birth another because according to her, all writers inherited a kleptomania gene from their parents and prior generations.

mama wrote that poetry is simply complicated, that it was something her father slept with whose warmth he preferred over her mother, and that like theocritus, he fell in love with the moon and made her his mistress.

mama’s mama depended on the coordinates of others for her survival. she seemed to whisper throughout her journals that grandmama had no education, so spent herself studying men known for their birthright. it wasn’t until i’d read through the writings several times, that mama’s words seemed to scream that grandmama clung only to men who climbed spanish steps of unquestionable acceptance.

toward the end of her life, mama described the environmental factors that influenced her writing, and expressed feeling haunted by the vanishing of her life’s work. she said her words and thoughts were as forgettable as the temperature of the sun on the day of her birth, and according to her, there was a storm on that day, and the sun had taken leave.

i’ve not shared the contents of mama’s journals with anyone before now, and i don’t trust myself to discern what parts of my life have been stolen versus those which have been gifted, and i’m not sure there’s a difference.

i believe mama felt poisoned by the generations before her, so in her honor i planted foxglove, because of it’s toxicity, beauty, and endearing ability to self-propagate. it might be tempting to call out one of those qualities, to suggest it doesn’t belong , but the qualities of nature mirror the qualities of mankind.

everything that endeavors to exhibit the scent of excellence must contend with and be victorious over the darkness that forever but only temporarily plagues the sun.

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