My Mother's Anxiety

I held some grapes

more than my hand could grasp.

Some tumbled onto the floor and fled.

I ran to retrieve them,

as if someone stood nearby with a whip,

tightening their grip at every second tick.

In my haste, I squashed one and slipped,

flipping onto my back and elbows.

The carton of grapes flew backwards,

over my chest and face they rolled

mocking my very existence.

Is this my inheritance?

I lay there with a heavy sigh,

cementing the kitchen floor my early grave.

My mother strolled by

If only I could ferment into wine,

or some form of dried remains.

With one side eye,

I saw the grapes rolling back

becoming a bunch,

going back to the supermarket,

on a truck for delivery,

to the farm whence it came,

back to its little seed,

from the grape before it,

and the grape before that,

surviving droughts

and countless storms,

to only end up here,

next to my ear.