my mom plants a garden in my heart. she tends to the yellow tulips and the purple hydrangeas. me, a flower— i can do very little for her. i provide no physical sustenance. i take from her— i need her effort to sprout. but her hand caresses me and my stem perks up, leaning towards her touch. when winter comes i begin to shrivel— i wilt. my petals fall off. she picks them up. how can something dead look so beautiful in her hands? my mom plants a garden in me because she wants me to live to see tomorrow. so when my mom  wakes me up with her voice, warm as sunshine, nurturing as soil— i know i have a second chance to bloom.