by Angie Wright

I sit at the cherry writing table my son handcrafted for me in that year when I had to wrench my roots from tainted soil. Through the window, I see the lush glade of ferns and brilliant yellow witch hazel and bright red winterberries and rose-colored dogwood leaves. Next spring will throw forth pawpaws and blueberries and blackberries, hazelnuts and figs.

This fruitfulness was long in the making, years of my hands digging in the dirt next to yours, hope still in full flower. Season after season of planting and watering and whispering to the growing, flowering, fruiting things, Thank you, and More, please.

That’s what I said to you for twenty years. More, please. Until the time came, when I could only say, No more. Please.

This morning, every morning, I light a candle and say, “Thank you.” Then, as the sun emerges through the grove of red oaks and sugar maples, I write.

After a shower, I consider my aging body. I’ve never liked it, not since I was the teenage girl who could see only hips too wide, neck too long, feet too big, breasts too small. I’ve never spoken well of my body. I’ve not treated it kindly. Now, here we are, still together, my body and me, in this waning season. How have I neglected to appreciate the beauty and faithfulness of my only constant companion? I say out loud, “You’ve been good to me. You’ve done your job with only minor complaints. And you don’t look too damn bad for an old crone.”

I still wince at the sight of the quilt-covered queen bed sagging on one side. I’ve slept alone since that day in the sleet of a southern winter, when, after decades of adoration, ardor, and insistent infidelity, this bedroom became mine, not ours.

I no longer imagine that you and I will lie entwined until the end of our days. Instead, on some near or distant day, in this bed that is mine, not ours, my grandchildren will climb up beside me while my two sons arrange my pillows and give me sips of water. They will tell stories of my slapstick goofs and fierce mothering, and take care not to mention all the ways I fell short.

Through swallowed sobs, they’ll say, Thank you, Mom, for everything, and gently nudge me toward whatever lies beyond.

Angie Wright has always liked starting trouble—mostly good trouble. The animating question of her life has been how to stand against hate without hating the haters. Angie’s work has appeared in RavensPerch, Barely South Review, Dorothy Parker’s Ashes, and others. An identical twin, mother of two excellent sons, grandmother of a lively five-year-old Costa Rican boy, she lives with her grand old dog, Banjo, on the Eno River in Hillsborough, North Carolina. Website: angelahopewright.com.