The Foundation of Now

The Foundation of Now

         I breathe out ivy. It wraps around me like a hug. I stare out between the leaves. There are no birds, only a yellowish-grey obstructing my view beyond the street. I cannot see the sun. It is one of those days when you can't breathe in.
         My mother bloomed in red. Hibiscus. Her eyes were sad as she handed me the handkerchief to cover my mouth and nose. It had the same pattern as her fingers, pretty red flowers. She loved hibiscus tea.
         I loved looking at the ivy covering the shelter windows. It defied fate. Such little sun, such little air, yet it grew. At times, I feared it, as if it were trying to consume the building whole, along with us, for taking away the sun.
         I speak ivy. It crawls out of my mouth like an apology.
         I see ivy. And finally, everything is green.