cherry blossoms

i remember
when i knew that my mother’s favorite smell
was blooming
purple lilacs
outside Grandma Stella’s house

i can recall
when my legs were small enough
to fit completely inside
dad’s cowboy boots-
leather barely holding
my teetering body
as i filled my bowl back up
with little wheat alphabet letters

i remember that morning,
wearing E.T. footie pajamas,
saturday morning sun
bouncing through the cul-de-sac;
rays of new mexican light getting caught up
between the thorns of pink rose bushes
neatly planted beyond the kitchen window

mom stood at the sink,
rinsing dishes-
dad fell to the floor

thinking he was joking,
i jumped on top,

accused him of stealing my cowboy boots;
he lay still-
jittering only so often

lost in a cloud of brain fog
axons and neurons mis-firing
electricity betraying him,
he floated effortlessly above our small adobe house,
squeezing his fists together
he held on
as we

learned,
that fathers
fall

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