Moments She Might Have Told You Of

She ate saltines over the new keyboard while you were gone. She could see the crumbs between and underneath the keys, getting crunched with every letter she typed.

She felt you hiding under the stairs, checking the mail. You asked her to explain her words, but she could only point to certain phrases and settled her eyes and ears on the bend of wind on the other side of the window. The birds landed on her sloping shoulders.

She used to play hymns in disguise on her piano, but not really in disguise because you didn't know any hymns and each one she played was new. Hallelujah came to mean something new. God became the moon and the moon reigned the night, smiling through the green, textured curtains upon your blessed bed.

She watered tomato plants because she loved what they gave her. She watered the strawberries for the same reason. With the summer heat seeping from the concrete through her shorts, through her skin, and heating her bones, she decided never to have children. Her children would not be heartbroken by their futures. Her children's children would not have to worry about water or read about gardens as something of the past or fear their own country and its people. She was selfish and compassionate in the same moment. She would take this moment of tomatoes and strawberries and warmth with her to eternity, and she would never let her children suffer a life with its absence. Her hands touch the driveway and grass simultaneously.

She'd rather have danced than talked with you.

She knows that this will be our year.

Happy New Year!