We bring leaves back to the craft table. I have a new trick to show her. I slip a maple leaf between two pieces of paper and gently rub the graphite over the hidden leaf. Slowly it reveals itself, the intricate edges, tiny veins, strong stem. A perfect replica, a moment memorized. A version we can keep.
Decades later, when I drove my daughter home in silence after her final game, I thought about how watching my mother work six days a week taught me the work ethic that enabled me to have the luxury of time she didn’t have.
Tell your kids there is room for one more. Tell them they are important and needed. Tell them you are praying and expecting that strong heartbeat to keep beating and beating until they are in your arms and eating bananas with big sis and later, still, running around. Families share their plans.
This isn’t a story of Sue contracting a brain/nerve disease that would steal her mobility and her memory. This isn’t about me, her mother, who couldn’t stop the insidious onslaught. This is the story of our pilgrimage to France, where we discovered Roundabouts...