Sometimes Denial IS a River in Egypt

Because I do not want to think about my stepfather getting old, about hospital rooms and the smell of decay. Of minds going forgetfully, of roles reversed, of me no longer the child but wanting to be. I will instead look for some kind of sign in the fact that although it is fall:

The roses still bud.



The flowers still bloom.



The spiders still spin, waiting.


The banded garden spider – Argiope trifasciataz. I haven't seen an egg sack yet.

But this one . . .