First Harvest

I made a new friend on the Cape this spring who hates Mary like I hate golf. When she comes to visit this summer, she’ll find my mountain home filled–inside & out–with Mary in all Her forms–Kuan Yin, Durga, Parvati, Tara.

I did not tell my friend that Mary is also the garden she so beautifully shapes around her seaside home or the sandy earth beneath her toes or the verdant marsh upon which we watched the sun set.

Her picture window served as our silent communion with the night and it was in our time together that I came to understand that it was not the deaths of those we love that wounded us so, but the way in which they were taken.

To blame a destination–a golf match, a holy site–is one small act of indignation.

To lose a mother. (Hers.) A grandmother. (Mine.) Violently. Is a wound that can not heal. Even as it creates a kinship that flowers and soothes.

To Esther. To Lila. To Mother Mary.
Comfort us.


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