It’s late on a chilly, clear summer night with the smell of green in the air and the world dark and hushed and distant outside my window. I’m writing on my laptop, with a mug of green tea at my elbow and my mother’s old, knit afghan wrapped around my shoulders, and it is all unspeakably perfect.
I miss my mother very much tonight. It reminds me of my childhood, growing up in our old house. It still feels weird that she’s gone, and that there’s no going back there anymore.