Snowdrops after my mother tells me I’ll end up old and alone I escape my studio apartment into light spring rain, over muddy yards where snowdrops and pansies bud—the beginning of a new season, the ebbing away of sullied slush, the indescribable optimism of the earth renewing itself soft and sweet and surprising, this rain makes me feel as I have not for months I do not have my phone or anyone to talk with, just the beating rain, the pressure a reminder that I am still here little bursts of hope that form puddles beneath my boots, that spread warmth despite the chilly wind, that take me back to days as a child in my parent’s backyard, searching not for anyone but overturning rocks, open and eager to see what new insects I might find, open to see, in the rain, how everything might appear different from the day before Bubble Wrap My father brings me bubble wrap to stomp on and crush, to make noise when I’ve trained myself to be quiet I leap on each bubble, the pressure of my foot against the bubble wrap, the satisfaction of squashing away what I’ve been given of claiming my space once more
About the author:
Erin Jamieson (she/her) holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Miami University. Her writing has been published in over eighty literary magazines, including a Pushcart Prize nomination. She is the author of a poetry collection (Clothesline, NiftyLit, Feb 2023). Her latest poetry chapbook, Fairytales, is available from Bottlecap Press. Find her on Twitter @erin_simmer.
Feature image by Pawel Czerwinski on Unsplash