You’ll be glad to know that the magnolia tree in the front yard has lived
to bloom again. Google said it wouldn’t last the winter,
especially after dad trimmed the branches when he knew he wasn’t
supposed to, but I finally took your advice and bought one of those burlap bags
and I think it’ll see another equinox.
I remember you told me that falling in love is a lot like learning to peel a clementine:
patiently and messily and falling apart in your palms with bitter pieces and sweeter juice
that turns Sunday brunches at the breakfast table the color of an orange creamsicle
I’d like to think I’m getting better at it, this whole falling in love thing
I don’t need your help writing twenty-five versions of the same text anymore
(actually, I might just get you to take a quick look at this one)
and I said “hi” and “how are you” before class this morning like a normal human being
and I think you’d be proud of me;
I unwrapped a clementine in a single strip today
the peel sits on my desk, unraveling and imperfect and impossibly beautiful
and maybe it’s all this talk of flowers or
the Febreze hitchhiking on the tailwind of a spring cleaning or
the scent of magnolias that were never supposed to live and survived anyway
but I could swear it looks like it is blooming.