"Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee
calls back the lovely April of her prime."
- Will Shakespeare
Her touches are everywhere: little Christmas knick knacks arranged on a book shelf; striped candle holder amid the fray; a dying bouquet of roses (save the dried petals, she said); black cake wrapped in plastic, in a zipped sandwich bag; porcelain containers of food carefully laid out in the fridge; a glittery, red 'Seasons Greetings' sign still on the front door; basket piled high with my warmest clothes, the ones she borrowed.
She thinks I looked tired, though she won't say it. She wants me to come home in six weeks, put the world aside, don feathers and beads and dance with abandon in the streets. But I'm selling my costume, wary of coming back to life more tired than when I left.
The sheets in the spare room no doubt smell of her. I haven't gone in to change them. I haven't done much of anything since she left. This silence is what the loner in me longed for.
She called just after the new year began and, for the first time in a long time, I listened. Truly listened. And heard the pureness in her voice: Pure love and devotion.
I have memories of moments with her from the past two weeks that were both trying and lovely, moments I'll never get back, moments I hold close. And I'm thankful every day to have the chance to create new ones.
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