Almond Mom

by Kerry Lynd

There was a tree that sent its branches weeping to the ground

And I as a baby was lain beneath and grabbed at my toes.

And by that willow was a stream and its water came up no more than an inch, even in the rainy season—the water flows onto the beach.

—The house of my mother and the house of my father

And the house of my mother’s mother before her—

And she began to grow small, my mother, and lost the softness of my youth.

I saw her once counting almonds, and slicing a piece of bread in half, and taking half a carton of single-serve yogurt and sitting at a table;

She ate it all in silence while looking out the window,

And I could not tell if she was sad.

She looks dreamy when I talk to her—distracted—

Once, she walked away in the middle of a conversation.

I was stung,

And struggled not to cry.

We are close, she says to me, we have always been close

I think of the times I felt judged by her,

Or hid myself,

And I hide again, and agree.

The rain comes and floods the basement, and we drain it into the yard.