These days I plan out the smallest tasks
as if they are mammoth ones, end-alls, crucial
and critical pieces of a whole life.
I’ve been potting the aloe plants in the rain
in the deep desert winter,
out walking my 13-pound honey colored dog
early in the morning before work, walking past
the giant palm trees and the black crows
flying high over us in tandem, soaring with the wind,
heading for the mountains covered with snow.
And I am planning what is next on paper,
a sketch of what to grow next in my little garden,
calendula for healing, the yellow flower heads
look like little suns early in the morning.
And I add orange nasturtiums, the petals fiery with
passion. My dog and I collect the flower petals when
they fall and we save them in cups so we can throw them
out over the sand and the wild grass when we are walking.
I think this will help me celebrate abundance
when it comes my way. My dog leaps alongside me at midday
as we walk along the canyon’s edge. I try to imitate
her because it looks like an act of pure happiness.
We grow older together practicing the same
acts of happiness I’ve always known how to keep an eye
out for. Walking and smiling. A gay woman in a life
without a partner, working part time jobs, reading novels
and drawing pictures of my garden, #2 pencils in hand,
in the picture are sunflowers taller than I imagined
they could be. In the garden, I’m planning for more,
small violets, pure purple petals, a deeper color than last
years. Soon there will be more.
Sunflowers the color of the moon.
 

Author Bio:
Charlene Langfur is an an organic gardener, a rescued dog advocate, and a Syracuse University Graduate Writing Fellowship. Her most recent publications include a series of poems in TIGER MOTH, POETRY LEAVES, GYROSCOPE and forthcoming a series of poems in WEBER-THE CONTEMPORARY WEST and EMERYS.

When my father’s new wife asked about the girl in the picture, he said I came with the wallet. Bernadette told me this herself the first night I stayed at the house in Santa Clara. Bernadette does mani-pedis on Tuesdays and Thursdays at Neil’s Nails, and I tell myself the combination of polish remover and nail gel encouraged her to believe his tale. When she started out, Bernadette could only paint stripes — diagonal, in one direction — but by the time she moved on to shapes, it occurred to her that the girl in the picture had gone from pigtails to a pixie cut. Bernadette worked at a hair salon before reinventing herself.

My first night at the house, and every night, she called my father Jack. Every uniform from every place he ever worked said “Juan.” But he didn’t work at a place that made you wear a name tag anymore, and he didn’t call me mija when he shut the door to the spare room that night. At lunch that last afternoon, he called empanadas “turnovers,” and as he steered me through the airport, he tipped a skycap $10 to carry the duffle bag I’d borrowed from Mom.

So at the terminal, when my father said, “Bye, Carly,” which is not exactly me, I didn’t bother to correct him. And when Bernadette called, “See you soon, Carly!” over Connor’s stroller, I didn’t bother to correct her, either.
 
*Previously published by Flock.


Author Bio:
On her first grade report card, Tina Tocco’s teacher wrote, “Tina always has very individual and creative ideas when she writes.” The editors at some journals and anthologies, including New Ohio Review, River Styx, Italian Americana, Flash Nonfiction Food, and The Best Small Fictions 2019, must have felt the same way because they published some of Tina’s work. When Tina gets bored writing for grown-ups, she writes for kids, such as the children’s poetry collection The Hungry Snowman and Other Poems (Kelsay Books, 2019). She also likes to teach creative writing on Zoom, listen to peculiar podcasts, and daydream about living in rural New England. Tina earned her MFA in creative writing from Manhattanville College, where she was editor-in-chief of Inkwell. Some of her favorite things are cats, popcorn, and the Lois Lowry book The Giver.