Felecia Caton Garcia

Try to remember: things go wrong in spite of it all. I listen to our daughters singing in the crackling rows of corn and wonder why I don't love them more. They move like dark birds, small mouths open to the sky and hungry. All afternoon I listen to the highway and watch clouds push down over the hills. I remember your legs, heavy with sleep, lying across mine. I remember when the world was transparent, trembling, all shattering light. I had to grit my teeth against its brilliance. It was nothing like this stillness that makes it difficult to lift my eyes. When I finally do, I see you carrying the girls over the sharp stones of the creek bed. When they pull at my clothes and lean against my arms, I don't know what to do and do nothing.