children’s voices fill the kitchen before the bus: “what’s a word with 3 vowels in a row? ‘beautiful’.”

she sat with the morning, a bottle of pain reliever on the counter, saying “I hate creative writing class, my teacher made us write a six word poem about our life.”

the light begins to grow out of coffee mug steam, the day’s loud laugh begins to shriek. she turns to me and says:

I
love
to
smell
spring
air

“what?” I say

I
love
to
smell
spring
air

“that was my poem,” she says.