wildscape. literary journal

There are wildflowers waking from this same soil
by Emily Patterson

That spring I take the baby food
cookbook, used precisely twice—
small red lentil cakes frozen 
in aqua trays—and the bottle rack,
its neon grass and white plastic tree
where I used to drape pink pacifiers—
to the thrift shop in two heaping 
cardboard boxes. A collection 
of small items, once deemed 
essential for the birth of a child 
and mother. Other relics persist 
in corners and closets, retained 
for various reasonings—pristine 
cloth diapers, disassembled 
crib for an imagined sibling, 
and the clothes she wore most—
pastel patterns imprinted on our 
earliest days. Every mother is told 
time is a thief, movement a mourning 
game—but there is beauty in release. 
In the emptied car, I feel a secret 
contentment as March sunlight 
returns, christens my face.

about the author // Emily Patterson