Somewhere in all the mixing
of these herbs and spices
I was caught in a scent of remembering
the way my mother crushes
crushed black pepper
because it is never fine enough
And the way she closes her eyes
sprinkling in salt, cayenne, cumin...
never measured, never the same
Just hands with so much to remember
hands with so much weight
holding the past and present
holding our hair and the house,
holding her pain and my pain
holding a ladle and my hand
smiling and laughing
I chase her down for a hug
as she runs from one *** to another
we giggle and giggle,
and the flame feels cold
unparalleled to her warmth

There isn’t much to this week
but on this day, intertwined in a breeze
wondering if the clouds will shower
or burst into a freeze
I read pages and pages of past
taking breaks to peel pears
and slice the strawberries
drizzling honey onto plates
and savouring the sweetness of spring fruit
I think of all the mountains I've yet to climb
and how much I look forward to the rain
but parts of me still hold onto autumn
and the feeling of watching the trees
shift into a new ending
It’s just like how these days
I keep returning to the shelves on these walls
picking up all the books
from every conversation in the past
and trying to, once again, read between the lines
to decipher when those questions
became answers

These sounds of silence
Rumble and roar
I’m in a constant state of questioning
Asking what love is,
Filling in the gaps between all my questions
With the things we saved for March
Relishing in the idea of spring
And what it means to bloom
Peeling away at citrus,
Reaching for the plums and nectarines
In the icebox, scarfing down cooled melon
Picking at peonies and daffodils
Thinking about tea but hating its taste
I was never a morning person
But the sun these days is so new

But it’s when the winter creeps back
And I awake to a morning frost
Bits of past, pieces of December
Pine trees and heating cars
I remember the worth of remembering
And the reality of how time moves
And how all these questions
Sprinkle down with snow, rain,
sun rays, or leaves
never leaving, never eased
only knowing that I don’t know
and that seasons don’t return; they just pass

I twist this discomfort between my fingers thinking of how to find the places I would be holding onto maps of all my searches
If I was in this world, by myself
where would I be but under the weight of it all?
Sinking into loss, folding all these thoughts and packing them away
trying to pinpoint the moments
in which I could define love
The falsehood of this bravery
grasps onto my steps, forwards and backwards
I keep walking in the same spot
sitting among moments and memories
and everything I've yet to define
knowing, however, that I recognise love
and everything it is
since the moment I could breathe
it's been in the spaces between my mother's fingers
waiting for me

Pain resonates through these laughs
a sense of solitude, lonely voices in isolation
I hope to wash off this ignorance
and listen to all that you wish to tell
holding on to the burning sense
that time is leaving us all behind
I think of ways to never leave your side
hoping you keep these stories on your palm
and feed them to birds on their quietest days

The presence of words spoken
weighs heavily on these trembling hands
I wish to take the clocks that overtook me
and inscribe in them all the lessons and stories
gifted to me by loved ones
back when I was too preoccupied with tomorrow
and everything I wanted to be
When this world was all, I thought about
and this life was all I could see
Occasionally, I find a hollow breath
and sometimes, it’s enough to fill these lungs
as I soak this anxiety in remembrance
Befriending grief and hiding from time
walking home in a new day’s cold
Shivers and chills, pulling apart my steps
With aching bones and a desire to rest
but forward and forward I go this time
knowing, wholeheartedly,
that seasons never last

purple, yellow bruises
from playing outside
and picking up pebbles
to throw at tomorrow
and chase it away
the sky was never blue
as we never had enough strength
to look up past our little heads
engulfed in the wonders of chalk and road
when secrets were worth flower petals
and flew away with the wind
unlike the ones we hold today
with aching shoulders
and burning pains
from looking up and only up
and witnessing how fast
these colours change
terracotta, navy, to grey
as all these pebbles wash away