Things are easier to encompass
when they are young.
My mother spent her Sundays
choking weeds in the
garden. It has become a jungle
of dandelions and
gravel and before night killed day
out of envy,
out of pure goddamn spite, she
complained to me that the
neighbors stole her idea to
build a greenhouse.
What isn’t yours won’t appear
in front of you.
We watch Dead Poets Society,
I know he is set to die within
the first ten minutes.
Some people are set to die in
the rising action, and my sister
howls and curses me for my
cleverness, my goddamn
wickedness. My mother
looks at me with astonishment,
asks me, “How did I know?”
How was I supposed to
tell her I just did. Same way I
knew magic does not work
if there is a mirror present and
she praised my mind and crooned
over my face. “How did you get
so beautiful?” she would
always ask, and I would tell
her I never knew, but I did
and I do, same way I can spot
what comes before it does.
It is because of her, and in
spite of her, and in conjunction
with the fact that the beginning
has choked her out and
she is gone for good, for
goddamn good, I hope.