Hatching How could we know what 365 days 8760 hours 525600 minutes would bring? Your mom passing I miss her "yeah"s and her "hrmmm"s the way she rolled her eyes left arm across her chest right arm up, hand like a gun at the side of her face maybe Jack got that from her. Fucking cancer your insides burning while trying to sleep through in a dark room cancer frollicking skipping through your insides have a good old time with your blown gall bladder your skin shiny and dry I wish I could have taken some of it burned in your stead. Maybe we could have bounced it back and forth like a game of hot potato. COVID. Trying not to breathe in anyone's air. Construction. Trying not to breathe in mold or roofing paper fumes paint or dust. I barely remember being able to walk in the backyard barefoot baby Jack rolling in that green green grass. But. Look at you now. You talk about getting a tattoo on your breasts a phoenix breaking the gravity of pain lifting itself despite the weight of dense flames. You do not see what I see the red hair taking root again breaking through flesh forged in fire streaking forward down every which way even from your womanhood. Your bright ocean eyes I drown in whether dry, teary, tired. Your smile punching through a blast of joy despite this year. You dragging yourself through the yard the thick barb chewing gloves the tools in the dirt shaping the world around you to your will. You are the phoenix.