I see her luggage sitting on the kitchen chair and slowly tiptoe into her room. There she lies on her bed, her knees curled up under her afghan. She was gone for a while, and now she is home. When she wakes her footsteps will sound even and premeditated from where I sit in my room under the kitchen. The steadiness is soothing. She just keeps going--one more dish to wash, one more shirt to fold. She never questions it, never leaves it for another day. Just continuous, dependable, repeating. Her ways confuse my scattered brain and bring it comfort. I owe so much to this woman who gave me everything. My love of art, music, and dance. My sense of humor, my love of learning, and my intense hunger to read. Her hand brushes through my hair. Her little frame hugs me tightly and she whispers she loves me. I wait for her to wake up so I can tell her I love her too.
