End of August

by Amma Aning



Your mother still sends me the vegetables from her garden 
She feeds me like my mother did, like she fed you 
The same hands that brushed your hair and buttoned your shirts
tends to the tomatoes I put in my pasta sauce
That’s all I think of now, how far you are, how incredibly close 
I try to live for the day, but it’s hard
As soon as today starts, it feels like tomorrow 
And next month and next year when I’ll finally be there 
There which has no shape except one where I will fit without
squeezing myself in 
But sometimes, too much, I want to be in the yesterday
where you’re proud of me, you love me,
and you’ll see me tomorrow



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