Anne Switzer
OCTOBER We are moving into winter. The old me is a missing person. Things have gone from disordered to filthy. This is the month my mother died. The plant I bought to remember her by is fighting to survive. Hugo went to Mexico began new love affairs and brought me back a cup of shells and a jade stone. It was as though he had handed me my heart. Emerald green and rough-edged. I placed it beside the dying plant. Sleep is the only call I answer. The waking hours have browned and curled and fallen away.
52 | Anne Switzer