My dad raised me on holy water and my mom planted seeds in our pockets. I took long to bloom, but even my thorns were beautiful- the part that hurt most. My granddad worked in the mines and said my eyes were darker than coal. Said a lot of men out south had his name under their tongues, so he couldn’t stay here forever. The other day my mom was tending to the garden. She prayed over the flowers and said my dad is now the part of the story where the rain feeds the bloom. I said, “well, what about the soil”? She told me that light hits it like embers and it acts like coal to keep the whole thing running. Told me how the darkness and thorns makes room for light, so don’t go covering my ears over sad stories and sharp edges. Just let yourself feel something, even if it fucking hurts. -AMT