my mother can’t cook

anything too complicated

so after my father became ashes

sprinkled over soil,

my sister and i lived

on instant noodles & chicken nuggets,

chemically-combined meals

we consumed with our childhood,

swallowed whole

because it was easier

to convince ourselves

we were– are– unaffected

by the tree that grows from the dust

of our dad, slowly climbing

in length as I transform

from twelve to twenty-two,

her nine to nineteen.

the leaves sprout

so suddenly each spring

I almost choke on their sweet perfume,

wonder how it still happens

after ten years of knowing

the conifer whose cones are encoded

with my family name,

DNA encircling the roots

and leaving a resin in the air

that swirls the same way

the seasoning on ramen

morphed into my nostrils

on days when it was all

I could smell, when nothing

else mattered except

feeding what was growing,

except surviving.