FINDING NEW WAYS

Funny how we repurpose things. Take this glossy brown wicker
basket in front of me. Once, it contained a flower arrangement,
spongy green Styrofoam at its stomach ambushed by bouquet. 
Condolences peering out of lilies, cerulean and white, solemn
and tearful. Sent by coworkers to your father’s funeral. Presently, 
it occupies with woven shine simple jars of popcorn. Strange how
it honored the dead, nuzzled an urn of human ash and now homes
your favorite snack. We’ve repurposed each other over the years,  
too, don’t you think? Young lovers turned old friends needling one 
another’s buttons. Separate people turned union by the blood of 
children. Your shoulders once tangled my hair, but are now so 
much more, where the death of our fathers and the ripe keloid of
pandemic fears are a canvas for our intertwining scars. Always our 
triangle chards finding new ways to carry on. Ways to bind or break 
a slight renewal more. Like paper made pulp again, we are purpose,
repurposed.

Amanda Rosas (she/her) is a mother, poet and teacher originally from San Antonio. She draws strength and creativity from her Mexican American roots, and from her husband and three daughters. Her poetry and essays have been published by The Latino Book Review, The Front Porch Review, Calyx, Anti-Heroin Chic and The San Antonio Review, among others.  Though a passionate educator, she dreams of being a full-time writer and storyteller.