A few weeks ago, I was talking on the phone with a female friend and former neighbor, who lives in the town in which I used to live, for forty-two years.
I have written so many times in so many places about the move that I made from the country to the city that I should be wearing out the subject by now.
But the trauma of the change lives beneath my skin.
The subject of our phone conversation mostly concerned how distant I feel from my son and how he has assured me that I am not alone.
The weather outside on that day produced grey skies and chilly temperatures for April.
Spring is supposed to be springing. One can tell that in some places, it has been warm enough to bring up the daffodils. But that is about it. It is the end of April now. At some point, the heat will be so hot that I will have to turn on the air conditioner.
I want the sun. I want the sun to guide me. Not only in time but in hope.
The phone conversation ended after an hour with instructions from my friend, who is also a dedicated Mother. She said: Take a walk, Lyn.
And I did and I discovered this beautiful tree, its branches defined clearly by the white sky.
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