Every yearmy mother plants the same garden: tomatoes, basil, marigoldsguarding what cannot be guarded. I ask whyshe doesn’t try something new. She laughsas if I’ve missedthe point of growing. The soil remembers, she says. I watch her kneelwhere she knelt before. Her hands press seedsinto a historyshe will never write. By July,tomatoes redden like suns. … Continue reading What My Mother Knows About Beginning Again