When my mother calls she talks about the succulents in her backyard, how she overflowed the pool because she forgot to turn off the water, my father’s new job at Rainbird, how she’s worried, at 57, she’s too old for this. In April they will install a safe in the floor of their house in Texas, a place to keep photographs and firearms. He will buy a humidifier. She will drive across the desert with their cocker spaniel. On one trip she will bring their bicycles but it is too hot. They track road tar across the carpets.



Andrea Spofford is a native Californian transplanted to the South. She writes essays and poems, some of which can be found in Blood Orange Review, Breakwater Review, and Ramshackle Review.


Photo Credit: Kate Farnady

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