What Connects Us

Early morning, I sit alone sipping coffee, chatter of the birds, bugs, warning of the crows, memories of my mom. This is my church, the cemetery. This is where I go to remember her. She died last month. I knew she would, expected her to for more than a year. Each time she didn’t I was left with a sense of relief and regret. It would be easier to not go through this time and time again, watch her in pain, visit the prison that was now her body, but there were moments of laughter, stories, new and old. In those final weeks I read to her, mostly about animals, both of us escaping to another place, our place, fear free, pain free. So, to sit with a dog at my foot, with the sound of squirrels breaking limbs, is a communion with my mother. The butterfly I see in the afternoon, the dragonfly that hovers, remind me of her. It comforts and saddens me and that is probably all I can hope for. So as these summer mornings slip away too quickly, I hold on to them with the knowledge that they are not to be taken lightly, rather honored, acknowledged and remembered. I'll continue to listen to the animals, read about them and think of my mom. 

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