In the days of my mother dying, in the summer, of the summer, of the summer… I looked for her in the trees. I was nine months pregnant, living in the mountains, while she was 300 miles south at the sea.
Lying on my bed, hot and sticky, belly burgeoning, wrapped in a sheet, I’d gaze for hours out the tiny balcony which overlooked the brook beside our farmhouse. With Impressionist eyes, I’d find her face in the foliage–in peace or in anguish–and I’d know what kind of day she was having.
In that way I practiced suspending time, until we could see each other again, but the world turned, and soon the baby joined in, and I knew that his release would bring hers–just as the trees began to let go of their leaves.