I miss the kitchen window of my first home, where I could look out over my family garden and talk to the plants. I pretended they stretched up just to hear me better, that my voice was as good as a watering. I pretended they could spin my stories to sugar, and that my thoughts would become so fable that the leaves would wear my words and call it vein.
I pretended my own veins, green as spring, were characters from a language forgotten. Letters my ancestors snuck under my skin so I would always know the sweetness of sharing.