We first met when your last breath cooled in my palm like an egg; you dead, and a thrush outside sang it was morning. I backed out of the room, feeling the flowers freshen and shine in my arms. The night before, we met again, to unsay unbearable farewells, to see our eyes brighten with re-strung tears. O I had my sudden wish - though I barely knew you - to stand at the door of your house, feeling my heartbeat calm, as they carried you in, home, home and healing. Then slow weeks, removing the wheelchair, the drugs, the oxygen mask and tank, the commode, the appointment cards, until it was summer again and I saw you open the doors to the gift of your garden. Strange and beautiful to see the roses close to their own premonitions, the grass sweeten and cool and green where a blackbird eased a worm into the lawn. There you were, a glass of lemony wine in each hand, walking towards me always, your magnolia tree marrying itself to the May air. How you talked! And how I listened, spellbound, humbled, tenderly to your tall tales, your wise words, the joy of your voice, smiling, dancey, humorous; watching your ash hair flare and darken, the loving litany of who we had been making me place my hands in your warm hands, younger than mine are now. Then time only the moon. And the balm of dusk. And you my mother.