I have her hands


to hold her stories














if wrinkles were flowers

we’d all welcome them









rare moments of clarity










 that day by the lake

 quietly absorbing the color and light






her chair






very sick, my mother spent the last few months of her life in a nursing home.  each time I’d visit I’d find her propped up in a chair by the nurse’s station.  one day I asked “what are you doing out here, mom?”


  “I’m waiting to buy my ticket,

the train is coming.”



















the month of letting go