I press my fingers against the foggy glass, soaking in the last lingering glows. I trace the sunset only to pause over a stretch where white and red blend and blaze. That crimson red is the color of the tablecloth we bought together years ago. It is the color of her scarf still sitting in my closet. Soft, silky, intricate, just like my mother. Her favorite plant breathes by the window. I brush the heart-shaped leaves. Oxalis triangularis opens its wings with the first footsteps of the sun—a cluster of tethered butterflies. We have been tangled here for a while.
Naz Knudsen is an Iranian-American writer and filmmaker. She mostly writes creative nonfiction and has published a few things. She lives and teaches in North Carolina. Twitter and Instagram: @nazbk