I claw at the soil digging deeper. The soft dirt embeds itself into my nails and fits into the creases of my skin left open by the dryness of my condition. My gloves were useless, laying tattered by my side, worn out by my desperate digging. Determined, I pull out the stones and add it to the pile of weeds to my left. I remember you, and your words. Of how the flowers would die once your grandfather died. How he spoke to them every morning while watering them. Be happy my children, you will taste the sun today, for I live another day. My anak won’t take care of you, you only have me.

But I am here, and you will live. I tell the withered flowers with my digging. Let me breathe life into you.

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