Yesterday was dirt under fingernails

and rain tripping on a tin roof.

Yesterday was cracked wooden counters, torn wing of a white ant, the silence of heat rising off our running path. A shard of glass lodges itself in my thumb, bright-sharp, and my memory begins to bleed.

When I bring you into the past we take the long way. Someone said there’s a road now, we can drive, but I march us through hundreds of dried and silent stumps and say: imagine. Inhale the memories of children swarming slim eucalyptus.

The stream is a trickle is dried up. We’re not trespassing. We can’t trespass childhood. “That’s not true,” you say.

Every woman is a gardener. If you cannot love the past, dig. Here is where I buried my last free day — the hibiscus pollen that fell when I hacked back the darkpurple arms; potatoes fried in tallow; bird song filtering through the hedge. •

“Flying things” collaboration with Billy (3 years old). 2022. Personal collection.

Friends, if you want the inside scoop of the research I’m doing in Uganda, you can sign up for a paid subscription. (Lyric essays, like this one, remain free and weekly!)

I just received pictures from an art exhibition opening earlier this year, “Heritage” at Langley Art Council, and wanted to share them! I had two pieces up, and am grateful to friends Rachel and Jenny who came to support my nerves (especially when it came to participating in the artist panel!). Being a creative takes a community. <3

I hope you’re finding bright and beautiful things this week. Till next Thursday!

Maaike