On a hike in Topanga State Park with a group 
of 4th graders from a Title 1 school,
I explain we’re in a State Park
in the Santa Monica Mountains,
an area where Chumash and Tongva tribes
have lived for thousands of years, 
and pointing to the ocean—
which I discover most of them have never seen 
though they live in Los Angeles— 
I tell them the word Topanga means  
Where the mountains meet the sea,
in the Tongva language.

I stop at a small bush.
 
This is California sage. It has a strong scent.
Rub gently on the leaves and smell your fingers.

Before each hunt tribesmen rubbed their bodies
with this plant to disguise their human scent. 
 
A girl in a pink Minnie Mouse tee-shirt
puts up her hand.
Does broccoli grow here?
 
Broccoli grows on a farm. 
This is a wildlife reserve.    
A farm is where you plant vegetables.  
Where do carrots come from? I ask 
 
A boy with a missing front tooth says, 
The supermarket.
 
Do you know another vegetable? 
French fries, he says.
 
I lead us to a shady grove.
These large trees are oaks.
Do you know what grows on oak trees?
It’s a food for squirrels, deer and many birds.
 
The kid in the Minnie Mouse tee-shirt says, 
Tomatoes.
                        

Your life will never be the same,
Suzanne said after my daughter passed away. 
The hardest part? 
The rawness of grief. 
The nightmare doesn’t end with the rising sun. 
No cups of tea can cure 
the inconsolable ache or fatigue. 
 
Though her death wasn’t sudden
it wasn’t expected, 
Cancer in someone as healthy
as Mahalia, didn’t make sense.
 
After the diagnosis her message to us,
Don’t weep or be depressed 
I am determined to fight this monster. 
And win.
I believed her. 
We all did. 
 
Don’t you have to be old to die?
 
I prayed. 
Yes, the atheist prayed.
 
When the oncologist said, 
Only a few weeks,
a brave exterior hid her fear 
of dying. In constant pain, 
she took opioids 
so she could hug her small children.
 
I altered my prayers, offered 
to shave my hair, 
forgo meat, alcohol, chocolates…            
 
She died. 
 
The hardest part?
Learning to say— 
May her memory be for a blessing,
about my child.