As I embrace my mother and her hummingbird bones, I hold her for an extra moment, willing my body to memorize how she feels. It is like trying to fill a sea with only droplets of condensation.
The barrette in her fine white hair has slipped and as we talk about dinner, she searches for the right word—exchanging one she can find, broccoli, for one she can’t, brussels sprouts.
Without a sound it begins, very gently, to snow. Running to the guest room, I pull on socks and snow boots, wrap myself in the long down jacket with its fake-fur trimmed hood. The forecast did not call for this little storm, and I want to catch it before it is gone. I step outside, believing, even after half a lifetime, there is still magic in this world.
It is snowing heavier now, big fat flakes from the flat white sky. I tip my head back, open my mouth, and let the sting of frozen water hit my cheeks, melt into my eyelashes.
Finally, one lands on my tongue. I twirl around, arms out, and see my mother standing there on the porch taking a picture of my joy, as if we are still at the beginning of my life and not the precipice of the end of hers.
I smile at her and let myself believe for a moment that’s how we will stay, the two of us, our timeline strung together in an endless loop.
Jocelyn Lovelle writes about learning to love being human. She lives in northern California where she communes with coyotes and deer, owls and hawks, redwoods and Douglas firs. She’s usually outside, hiking and searching for places to cold-water swim. Find more of her writing at jocelynlovelle.substack.com.
Image Credit: Flickr Creative Commons/Dorret
