turgid ovenbird The anthurium in the front window has persisted since the funeral over three years ago. The thing refuses to die, though my mother wishes it wasn’t so resilient. She’s tired, she says, of looking at all those tiny penises bending towards the light. “I don’t mind,” my father says. “I figure it makes me look good.” So my mother waters it and it lives another day in its blushing and striving, dreaming of the touch of a flower weevil, forever denied. 260225 what's it to you? who go blather from