(50 mins; blah blah kindle)
Your mother was here. I let her in. She was different than how you described her; nicer. Though she could afford to be nice.
She wanted to see your things. You want to pry, you hag, I thought, but I didn't know how to say no. I showed her the living room. She was polite about the decor, nodded approval at the lamps. I watched her crane her head at the titles of your books.
She asked if that was the bedroom. Our bedroom. Ours. It was on the tip of my tongue, but I didn't say it. I hovered instead, in case lady got ideas about ratching through the nightstand. But she only looked at your clothes. She took out a jacket--she was very polite about it--and fingered the lapels. Then she leant into it--even though it was in her hands--and breathed in, just a slight whisper of a breath. I didn't have the heart to tell her it was actually one of mine.
I'd been so on edge that I'd forgotten your little grow op on the kitchen windowsill. I could have killed you then (hah). Remember the fight we had the day you came home with that little paper packet of seeds? Well, I told you then I wouldn't share any responsibility. So I told her they were yours. Sorry.
You're neglecting them, she said. It was true, they were drooping terribly. Baby, it's been hot this August. The city is unbearable. I sit at home in my underwear and pray for rain, or air conditioning. Your mother took up your little tin watering can, filled it from the tap, and watered the plants. She said she could hear the soil soak up the water like a sponge. She didn't want to take anything, in the end.
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