Eleven days minus one of gray, rain, sleet, ice, snow.

Matching my mother’s mind.

And mine, there.

Pulling off my sweater at her place, thermostat set to 75, where all I am is a moon in orbit around her. Because that’s what she needs to mend skin and face and heart.

Maybe it mends me, too.

There will come a day when I can’t do this because she will be gone.

Or I can, but she won’t know.

Chewing the Cud of Good

Thankful that the anger that was there for so many years has gone.