Wednesday, September 3, 2014


My mother is a time traveler. Sometimes she is here, in the now, but ever more often, she is there, her memory in a distant time.
"Are you looking for something?" I ask.
"Yes, I'm wondering how to get home to the rest of my family," she says.
I know she is not thinking of her own children, her husband and home but of an even more distant time. The home of her girlhood.
She seems comforted by my words.
This is home.
We are family.
She is loved.

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