Autumn reminds me more than any other season of the relentless passage of time. The days shorten, the nights lengthen, the trees relinquish their glorious burden. My sons must secretly use some sort of medieval stretching devices in their room at night; they wake taller every day. I am their mother. I can’t not see it, and my smile is a cloak for my aching heart. The mirth and the pain are like the mingled flavors of gingerbread, the spice and the sweet. Autumn needs them both.
But today I don’t think so much of sons, but of the daughter I am, the mother I have. Night is coming on, and I strain to see, like distant headlights, peace for us at last. Peace held between us, deeper and richer than fragile politeness, than gritted teeth. I wish we could fold our long troubled history between us like a quilt, the measured dance of corner to corner, the folding away on a high shelf. My hands have reached out; I find only air, growing colder.
I learn and relearn that forgiveness is not a destination on a map, but the sweater I pick up every day, and wrap around me, against the chill.
joining, at least for today,
found via The Habit of Being