My Mother

She stands there, shoulders hunched to her ears, jaw clenched, and forehead furrowed with worry. It is only broken by the scar from a fall when she was five. She walks around, scanning her environment for the next threat - things she can’t control, such as what others will think of her. So she does all she can to present her best parts on the outside, hoping to distract them. She doesn’t know that she has nothing to worry about. It is the ones who talk about others who have the most to hide.

She bends over, working in her garden, with her bare hands, finger joints thickened and knarled with arthritis. She pulls out the weeds as soon as they come up to not blemish her façade. They continue to grow back no matter how hard she tries.

Next, her worries focus on what to make for dinner.

She paces the kitchen, spine twisted and hunched. Then, she goes to the cupboard and holds the door open. Looking in, she grabs the old jars, reused and coated with spice dust. With a laboured twist of her wrist, she removes the lids, releasing clouds of colour - turmeric yellow, saffron red, and cinnamon bark brown. It coats her faded skin and hair. She wipes it off with the back of her hand, foraging forward despite all that has set her back.