signs of my parents

Cups of tea, half drunk. Some of them sitting by her desk, her chair, on the table, by the pot of tea still brewing. When you open the microwave and there's a mug inside, now cold again.

that's my mother.

Flowers lying around, in different stages of drying. In the summer they'll have been picked for my mother from the garden or along the road. In the winter, the bright pink blossoms of the Christmas cactus.

that's from my father.