By Hanne Larsson
We watch the flakes falling, faces window-pressed, waiting. Silent. Recalling a similar night years ago when snow fell indoors, coating cushions, feather flecks pooling, overlooked in spiderwebs.
We’d forgotten her hurt-cries melding with sputtering pots sounds and nursery rhymes; the weeping of adventure un-lived as Mum grew roots, never once wondering.
Here she sits, taxi to whisk her away to the world she craved. Before Dad, before us. We hoist grandkids onto our hips, remind her to text her arrival, knowing she won’t, remembering this time last year as her wings started to sprout, peppering the wake buffet downy.
“(I write) because otherwise the words dribble out of my ears.” – the writer