I like to write in my office space downstairs.
Well—my mom’s office space,
but she doesn’t use it anymore.
I like to write when I think about
the small changes
that have occurred in her the last two years;
apathy toward the smaller comings and goings.
It’s hard not to see the world
through the same lens,
living in the same home,
frequently being around
these often-occurring changes.
Changes associated with a much older age
that I wish not to contemplate for myself.
In my office, there is a window
that I enjoy gazing out of.
It presents a familiar view of a buckeye tree;
the buckeye tree that has been in our front yard
since I was young.
It is on stage, her and me a part of its audience.
Also in the audience is her garden.
She used to love gardening.
Her flowers flourish on their own now
with almost no maintenance,
other than my few attempts at designing it
to her specificities.
Directly in front of the window
there is a cluster of red flowers.
I don’t know what they’re called,
nor do I have any interest in knowing.
What I enjoy is the single hummingbird
that often comes for a meal,
infatuated by these flowers.
It very much enjoys its routine;
so purposeful and directed in its action.
It is a beautiful bird, unique
in its build and mobility.
It is an old folklore story
of the Taino Native Americans
that the hummingbird is peaceful,
but will protect its homeland
with the heart of an eagle.