I considered all the lines that make up the weaving of my mother’s memory. Her loss feels particularly unjust, for at thirteen there is only so much a child can understand about her mother. There were conversations that couldn’t have been had, and if they had been attempted, would not have been understood.
Forever grieving the loss of my mom, just a year ago, this section of the book was cathartic. I cried, grieved, and shifted to gratitude for the time we had and conversations shared.
