By Melody Miller
I rub my hands in baking soda, under cold water,
garlic lingering on my fingerprints from
the rice I cooked my mother earlier.
The snow will fall tomorrow night and I may be
with her for many days in the sparse apartment,
we moved her to when her condition became too frail.
I might look back and think of the sizzling of mustard seeds
and the aroma of old garlic, with its green centers,
before being engulfed by rice
and I will think of the heavy blanket of snow,
the night she passed. Like the many white throws I grew up with,
that sat in the linen closet, or lay across furniture.
The snow will remind me of her final time
on earth. The stillness of the winter night, the safety of home.
For now, she sleeps peacefully
in the front bedroom, as the ice storm begins outside.
I relax, the garlic still on my fingertips.
the rose in her cheeks before bed
and I know she will rise to see other days.
Melody Miller is a free-thinking southern transplant, with a love for all things creative, especially writing and anything to do with language. In her free time, she can be found cooking up healthy meals, living a "green lifestyle" and scheming how to live the happiest life.