![]() ![]() The smell of cinnamon – she had made Mom’s buns. Our family favourite, Hank Williams, yodelling through open windows. ![]() She stood there, sunshine in her hair, wearing Mom’s apron. She opened the front door as we emerged from the car shouldering our Dad and each other. The emptied rooms.īut, she had gotten there before us, my soon to be daughter in law. ![]() We sat there after turning of the engine, staring at the house, silence swamping the car, dreading to enter the silence that was yet to greet us. We had just arrived back to our mother’s home a year after her passing. I look to her, sitting there, remembering that first time she entered my heart. She is neither your daughter nor your sister, she sits somewhere between, her blood entwining with yours through your grand-babies. When she comes to you, and sits, telling you her hardest thing. ![]()
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