A writing from last year that still resonates with me.
The landscape of my childhood is not honey colored or bright with rosy reds. There were stormy blues and sleepy yellows. If I colored it with crayons, it would be the hues children leave in the box.
In photographs that have faded as much as memory, the fields around our old house are paler than boiler onions. All the winter walks have become one remembered walk, our breath blowing out ahead in thin clouds, the ice on the bent grass crunching under foot. Let the snow birds break the air, startled out of the underbrush. Let the dogs make chase, each cry bold and bright and startling. They are a part of this magic and cannot disturb it. But we would walk gently, let no words pierce the air. If I want her to hold my hand, I need only to reach up and my mother will curl her warm…
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