I am standing solemnly, staring out the kitchen window at the thick growth of bamboo that lines the grey, stucco court yard wall. The grass carpeting the courtyard is dry and brown, revealing areas of cracking brown dirt. There hasn’t been much rain this summer, which is why I am surprised that the bamboo is growing so well. It was always a resilient plant. I don’t ever remember a time where it didn’t thickly line the wall.   I look down at the plate in my hand, pick up the dirty yellow dish rag from the murky, soapy dish water in the right side of the sink, and start scrubbing off the remnants of the lunch mom had made for us today. It’s been a long time since I’ve return home. I’ve tried my best to distance myself from this place. This life I lived previously. I’ve kept it hidden from my friends and my followers.   I look over to my left. The old stove with it’s electric burners that barely lay flat after years of use. The pots are still on the back burners. I’ll wash those after I finish with these dishes in the sink. It’s hard for mom to move around now. Ever since the accident, she hasn’t been the same.   Behind me, I can hear her quietly humming. I don’t recognize the tune. I can hear her shuffling feet as she walks around the large teak dining room table with it’s plastic floral table cloth that has little tears on the surface. I’ll buy her a new one before I leave town again. Admiral, the calico cat meows by the closed screen door in the backyard. He’s annoyed that we did not save scraps of lunch for him.