Some things I write, I couldn’t say aloud without giving way to tears. And so the writing of them is weeping of a kind.
This morning, at about four, I started from a dream in which I found my mother in the entryway of an old church. I’d climbed the stone steps unaware of her presence, yet looking for, or expecting, to find something, or someone. She was alone, and looked so lost and afraid, that I immediately rushed to her side to comfort her. I felt her weight against my shoulder, and as she sighed, and again sighed, allowing me to support her, her burden passed into me in waves of relief and gratitude. As I guided her into a safer light — the first steps toward home, I thought — I was glad I’d arrived in time. And yet I was also so sad that I still haven’t recovered, and am not sure I will, or even care to. And that, by its own light and peculiar warmth, also gives me joy.