my mother was given an amaryllis bulb and she grew it herself in her living room, nourished by her cigarette smoke, patio lights, and endless true crime blaring off the tv.

the plant flowers – four huge blooms.

i visited her this past saturday and it was standing proudly, defiantly, watching us drink black coffee.

i take the above photo of it, because i find it beautiful, dark and almost sexual, like some kinda georgia o’keefe shit.

i edit the photo today on my lunch break and send it to my mother.

she thanks me for the photo and says she’s wearing the beatrix potter sweater i gave her, and she says i should feel lucky to have taken the photo when i did.

on sunday morning, the amaryllis reached too high to the ceiling and fell from it’s shelf and broke into pieces.

i am sadder about the loss of this plant than i would have thought i would be.

i find a set of vintage stamps at the thrift shop ran by the hospice house where my grandmother died.

i spend the afternoon stamping on vintage paper i got from another thrift shop.

i spend the afternoon amusing myself with glitter glue and cigarettes and black coffee.

i’ve been thinking, i’ve been thinking.