In Doubt

My doubt wears a long jacket thick enough to hide under my arms, itching the skin pinching the nerves even during the smooth of summer. It only lays itself down when I call mother who answers sometimes, and that alone makes me apprehensive. I doubt if she can snuff the riddles playing on my head, in the anvil. She said she will not leave, but the many flowers inside a big box are withering. I doubt her.