The plants in my mom's house always reminded me of chameleons. Not the ones that changed into the unique bright colors of its scales but rather the ones that simply traded their green hues for brown ones. I never minded the muddy tints that speckled this scene. I found comfort in their terracotta pots that could only hold their presence. All the things I liked were brown. The best sat in my white mug every morning, its steam told of the obscure dreams mama had yet to vent to me. She would tell them to me in a matter of fact way, that had the twang of a question at the end of each description. I always said it was because she wanted to see if my 6 year old mind could find a different angle to the prism of hers. I have yet to prove this hypothesis, and now I dream. In dark green. Of yellow smells on the hot stove. Hieroglyphics from a realm I can't yet translate. Now I ask you.. all that I ask you, is to make it, make sense to me.