On this spring evening, my mind wanders to childhood, when my mother and I filled the Toyota B210 with our luggage/bodies/cooler/pillows/blankets/pekingese dog; when we drove one side of Colorado to another, nights sailing by above our little car, moonlight streaming through the cold glass as I watched, darkened trees flying past, with my seat laid flat and blanket on my lap. The moonroof became home to a party of stars overhead.
Those were the nights when silence listened for our breathing. She - the woman to whom I was born - believed I was asleep, or at least I believed she believed it. This was a relief, because only in the lack of words did we find peace between us. Only 12 years old, I didn't know that I was just like millions of other children who count the days until they are far away from the parents they once adored.
Now my mother is on the other side of life, over 80, and I am half way through it myself. Our relationship today is similar to those Toyota nights, and I hold my breath, hoping she won't ask me any more questions.
The moments of unspoken words have snowdrifted in the space between us. The forest holds its breath. I am not sleeping this time.
