Day Seventy-Four: Mathematical
Usually, she is the first one to say hello. The first smile in a crowd of faces at dinners I'm still nervous to attend. Last year for Christmas she gave me a Shel Silverstein, which she knew I would love because she cared enough to ask someone who knew I would love it. I had nothing for her except thanks, but she seemed not to mind—another gift, much better than the book. She knows things about me I'd rather no one knew because her daughter tells her everything, but she does not seem to judge, and still always, the warm smile, the welcoming hug. Perhaps she understands the trying, the nearly mathematical work of overcoming oneself and building anew. Perhaps she knows my love for her daughter is as wild and deep as the sea that circles around our island and our lives, anchoring us to ourselves and each other, here in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of everything we ever were and are and will become. Our home.