Like a cat

The quiet has gone away. There's not enough quiet anymore. In the quiet I talk to you. Too many sounds push in and try to crowd our time together. Sometimes they don't recognize how much I need the quiet. I tried to reach into the quiet today. I shut my door and found your blanket. The soft tiny one that I wove for you. I didn't finish it before you died. I tied the fringe after and left it longer than I would have if you had ever touched it. That way I have more to hold when I try to find the quiet that I need. I traced the wavy weave and spread it out over my mattress. I cried out the weak tears, the noise. I pushed everything that was too heavy into the blanket. I gave the blanket weight and held it, rocked it. I made it settle my heart. I found happiness in my own stillness. I made room for the quiet, the beauty. Some days I envy what others have. Some days I know that I have something others do not. I know what the quiet is for.

Night, night Frost
Mama loves you

It should have been a picture

I carried a bag in from the garden today. It was filled with herbs and tomatoes and okra. I grew these. As I walked toward the house with my harvest, I felt the bag's weight and noticed it's distance from the ground. It turned into you, reaching up and taking my hand. We walked under the dried up apple trees, whose fruit has already fallen. When I reached the basement door I stopped to wipe away a few tears. The bag had changed back into itself. Your little surprise visits take my breath away.

Night, night Frost
Mama loves you