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
Yes, as others have said, I was right there with you. I love a good snowstorm and how special to share it with your mom one last time.
Oh this was a journey that hit me in the feelz
So many tiny crystalline moments laden with meaning tumble out of this piece as it unfolds – like snowflakes. Each keenly observed speck of life, familiar, ephemeral, precious and resonant.
Dearest Jocelyn, although I commented on Substack, I felt compelled to leave a comment here as well. I MUST SAY, this is even more beautiful on a second reading. Here, I fell in love with this line: “believing, even after half a lifetime, there is still magic in this world”. And the line that is giving me goosebumps, “as if we are still at the beginning of my life and not the precipice of the end of hers.” My mum was 98 on Sunday, so this speaks to me through that lens as well. Your little gem of a story sizzles with magic; and I too STILL believe in magic. xoxo
Friend, this is one of the most beautiful pieces you’ve ever written. I cried, literally, so poignant and heartfelt. I have often wished to stop time, to freeze the moment, to relive it forever. Thank you for this. ❤️
Oh Steve, thank you! That’s such a lovely praise as I know you’ve read a lot of my work. So much went into this tiny piece. I’m glad it made you cry, in the best way possible. xo
I am hugging my mom too. I am putting on my hat and snow boots with you. I am seeing the snow fall. You bring me right in to it with your lovely prose.
Oh that just means so much to me. Thank you for saying so. Crying a little over here. xoxox
Oh this is so striking to my heart, “let myself believe”. Yes, allowing a place for us to believe what comforts us. So beautiful 💝
Oooh I love that you noticed that line Kelly, and I’m not surprised. Thank you thank you. 💖
this is gorgeous! so visceral, such a beautiful snapshot of such a poignant moment.
Thank you thank you. I love that you said visceral — that’s exactly it. xoxox
Poignant! A lump in my throat.
Jocelyn, this is so lovely. I have to read it over and over again, like something delicious. Gorgeous.
Oooooh. Thank you for saying that! I still like it after all this time and all these reads. So many versions. So many. 😉 xoxoxo