Gray After Dark

by Noelle W. Ihli

As I studied the magnificent bird, the smile slowly died on my lips. The first person I wanted to tell—the one person I couldn’t tell—was Mom.

When she was home, her laughter filled the apartment,

If it’s all flame, you’ll burn out fast.” She chuckled. “I mean, a pile of wet firewood won’t ignite. You need kindling, too. But if you’ve got some sturdy, high-quality wood underneath …” “Mom!” I exclaimed,

“Opening up your heart is messy—and risky. But keeping your heart spotless is risky too,”

My mom, my unwavering supporter, was gone.

The idea of returning to the home I’d shared with Mom, to rooms echoing with memories of her, felt impossible. Every corner, every piece of art, every fiber of carpet would scream her absence.

I let the memories of Mom wash over me.

The way her voice sounded when she told me she loved me.

The way she’d brush my long hair after the shower some nights

The way she told me she loved me with so much conviction that never, not once, had I doubted it the way my friends seemed to do when it came to their parents.

Sometimes, I imagined what Mom would think if she could see me now.

I love you, Mom.

“What hurts you the most now?” I asked. She shrugged. “Not having a baby.”

I couldn’t help smiling. The phantom pain was gone. It took becoming a ghost of myself to finally get rid of it, but it was gone.

If you can’t see the stream through the snow, look for the trees and brush flanking the shore, Mom had said. Streams lead to rivers, rivers lead to roads. Roads lead to people.