For these eight days away from home at home, mom has been whole. For me, anyway. I close my eyes and I see her through my front window. She’s weeding the walkway to my porch.
Some mornings I stand on the edge of a steep knowing, a transformational space of understanding, embracing the brilliance that opens infinitely before me. Others, the land is flat beneath my feet, the same as it always was, closed off from the mystery beyond by a patch of trees, shadows, confusion. I’m fine and I’m falling apart. These are both true.
Life is a used book. We’re not the first to fall in love, we’re not the first to shatter on the rocks of heartbreak. We’re not the first to raise a child, to find a friend. to lose a loved one.