Present

The maple tree outside my window is fringed red. Behind the red and silver branches, the blue is clear and deep. It is chilly, but still spring.

Today is the third anniversary of my mother’s death. This fact sways through my thoughts like the evergreen beyond the maple.

I visited the gravesite where she lies with my father. Her death date is blank, beneath my father’s.

She had her name engraved when my father died. Just the date to be added, she told me, but three years past her death; it remains blank, like she is still living. Some days I come into the house and expect to see her on the couch, watching games shows or the news.

I rode early this morning, alone. A few degrees above freezing, the brilliant sun nullified the cold. Recent stresses have caused me to be heavy on Jigs. One handed, loose reined, I focused on breathing. Being in the present is hard. For brief moments, it was just Jigs, trees, the sun, the bold sky, and me.

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