Madrugadoras

I miss my mom the most in the morning. Wandering campus in the mist of a cool summer dawn, watching a doe teach her fawns where the crunchiest lettuces are growing, holding Owen's hand as he trips over the stones that lead up to our new house, listening to the quiet. I used to call my mom early in the morning, when I wanted to share the joy of being alive while the world keeps sleeping. She was always up early, too, watering her gardens or working on a knitting project. It constantly startles me to discover what triggers the tightening in my chest, the knot in my throat, that reminds me she won't answer anymore when I call. Small things, like misty mornings and cold coffee, are harder to push through than any holiday without her. But at the same time I desperately treasure those small things, and the sense of intimacy with my mom that continues on in them.