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When Momma leaves, our family huddle disperses, like when you take the magnet away from iron filings.
It was someone acting me, I think: I was huddled in a tight ball somewhere else, hands over my head, trying to protect myself from the unendurable sadness that would swoop down without warning, bloodied claws outstretched.
This is how we miss her now, less with a sadness that we swim about in and more with sharp spikes of feelings that pop up unexpectedly, like foxgloves in the woods.
I think that adults must get sort of worn away over time, like rocks out at sea, but remain who they are, just slower and greyer with those funny vertical wrinkles in front of their ears. But the young are a different shape from one week to the next. To know us is to run alongside us, like someone trying to shout through the window of a moving train.
