Louise Erdrich - The Round House Page 87 lyrics

No, Mom, not graves. I spoke carefully. We were digging up the dirt in your vegetable garden. Before that, I was planting flowers. Flowers for you to look at, Mom. Look at? Look at? She turned over, away from me. Her hair on the pillow was greasy strings, still black, just a few streaks of grey. I could see her spine clearly through the thin gown, each vertebra jutted, and her shoulders were knobs. Her arms had wasted to sticks.