Packing Up

I lean my face lower and lower over the opened Bible until I can feel the thin pages on my skin. From deep in my lungs, I draw breath. In that breath, I smell my mother, my childhood. I see my mother reading her mother’s Bible in bed while waiting for me to come home. I see my mother teaching me to sew and Christmases I loved, not the ones I hated. I see mom teaching me ballet. I hear her playing the piano through my bedroom wall, my own lullaby that puts me to sleep. I remember rainy days and ...