I can never tell if I feel as if my mother’s blossoming was cut short, or advanced prematurely. Death and life aren’t seamless opposites and we confuse them consistently. Her spirit lives on and continues to expand— either through me or beside me. This is something I know for certain. I rush the clock, thinking that there is only this time, only this place. It’s a futile way to move, but is my instinct, the thing I am trying to unlearn.

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Acrylic, oil, and spray paint on 30 x 30 in. canvas.