Our last spring still sounds like an unfinished overture. We planted a peach seed near our summer house but mother refused to go back and I never got to see it blossom. I've come to judge her by these last ten years of indifference but when I do I forget that once, before the transitions and the storms, she was good to me.
It was only afterwards that I found her diary, I wasn't
supposed to but I'm glad that I did because it helped me understand. She
wrote about escaping and finding peace after the snowfalls, about
redemption and about T (my father). He named me but wouldn't tell me
what it meant when I asked him, mother is the only one that knows and
she keeps his secret like a promise beyond the apocalypse.
browse through the jackets in her closet now I'm reminded of the light
summer dresses and the sunset on the balcony and if I listen closely I
can still hear the sound of her infectious laughter echoing through the