In the beginning
Elsa wears a psychedelic bikini, gardening gloves and purple mules. She leans forward digging. Eyelashes, thick caterpillars below wide stripes of blue eye shadow. A strand of dark hair escapes a neat beehive. She stops and draws on a cigarette; stares at the daisies bright as bedrooms. Her appendix scar disappears for a moment, and then returns, a fleeting smile. She doesn’t seem like somebody’s mother and some days, like now, she forgets she is. Heat radiates up from the concrete path in steady waves, washes over her like a holiday. She turns on slow olive legs, turns back to the kitchen.