My Therapist Asks About My Mother And I Cannot Answer
She dug the ruts in the dirt road I must drive, past the rusted sign nailed to a post that’s read KEEP OUT for generations. The road peters out into a pasture rickracked with Queen Anne’s lace, ragweed, poison oak, barbed wire and dandelions in full yellow flower. I go ahead on foot. I pick the best bouquet I can. I pick my way across the field. I spot her standing by a sugar maple. She waves at me. She’s brought a blanket.
Lori Zimmermann in Broad!











