White Oleander

Everybody asks why I started at the end
and worked back to the beginning.

The reason is simple.
I couldn't understand the beginning
until I had reached the end.

There were too many pieces
of the puzzle missing.

Too much she would never tell.
I could sell these things.
People want to buy them.

But I'd set all this on fire first.
She'd like that.
That's what she would do.

She'd make it just to burn it.
I couldn't afford this one, but the
beginning deserved something special.

But how do I show that nothing,
not a taste...

...not a smell, not even
the color of the sky...

...has ever been as clear and sharp
as it was when I belonged to her.

I don't know how to express that being
with someone so dangerous...

...was the last time that I felt safe.
The Santa Anas blew in hot
from the desert that fall.

Only the oleanders thrived.
Maybe the wind was the reason
my mother did what she did.