Writer by hobby and aspiring copywriter.✨ I love spending time outside, but also immersed in stories under a blanket.
I truly love this community. A big thank you to all who have welcomed me in. 💗🥰
On a patch of grass in the middle of the desert is a woman. By day, she tends to her garden of wildflowers, shoveling the shallow dirt through to the moist sand. She gets the seeds imported from every kind of climate and delivered by camel and sometimes, she can’t even believe that’s possible. And maybe it isn’t. Maybe she wanders her property—demarcated by four corners of cactuses—and finds small pebbles to plant in her patch of grass, tending them until they grow ornate rock formations. Or, maybe she sits in the middle of a blank, scorching desert, burning in even hotter sand dunes, watching her arms roast and bubble and char until they too become sand that drifts into the ever intensifying winds.
Grapefruit as Fatherly Love
They take work. I’m standing behind the counter where my father peels a white grapefruit. He sections them and continues to peel until they are no longer enveloped in the transparent casings and white ribbons, collecting it all into a pile beside the fruit.
She is diving in an ocean that grows steadily darker, as though to obscure an abusive creature. A cyclic progression of sea meets her mask and passes her flippers, holding unseen life in muted bioluminescence. On occasion, a blanket octopus haunts her periphery, though it could be her babies walking home in the snow, or the birthday lunch with her granddaughter when they first bonded. Turning to look only shoves it further out of sight until she is grasping at rising bubbles.
The draining bath water sounds like a woman wailing behind a wall and my limbs plaster themselves to the tub. I lie there long after she runs out of tears, growing warmer until there’s no distinction from when the tub was brimming with steaming water. That its absence can satisfy as much as its presence startles me.
Symphony of the Canyon
The canyon is draped in a shimmering sunset, the distant hills veiled behind a misty sheen. The air itself has been sprinkled with gold dust, even the darkest shadows. The sinking sun is a mother hen, and her gentle warmth wraps itself around me.