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May 4, 2020
It is my motherís birthday, and it seems I remember her not in any real memory but in two imagined ones manufactured from other memories. One is taken from a poem I had written about her, hoeing in the garden late in her pregnancy with me. It doesnít fit, of course because that was a difficult pregnancy for her and she would not have been out hoeing beans just a couple weeks before delivery. At least I think not. The other memory is actually a picture of her my father took. She is under a flowered tree in late spring.