When you think of your mother,
you look at her kitchen.
The way she beats her scrambled eggs,
salted with reckless abandon and mixed
with the green ends of scallions.
Even in the kitchen, it is spring.
When you smell garlic, you think of her,
and how she isn’t afraid to eat it raw and whole,
spicy and lasting on the tongue, just like her.
When you think of your mother,
you look at her garden.
The way she buys the clearance plants,
not only because they are cheaper, but because
she loves bringing things back to life,
the resilience of the small and plenty.
When her parents never believed in her,
she believed in herself.
Even after the rainstorm and winter, it is spring.
When you smell mulch, you think of her,
and how she loves the bright red color,
and it is the first thing you notice when you come to her home.
It is not an accident that the next year,
many houses lined their flower beds in red.
When you think of your mother,
you look at yourself.
The way you cook your eggs and
notice wildflowers by the roadside,
and even in the midst of cold, it is spring.
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