She walks ever steadily onward, onward as I did, to the tree.

She kneels, her hands together in prayer, before the tree.

And I, watching upon her, smile down.

“Mom,” I say, but my voice is lost among the branches, scattered on the wind. Still she hears. Still she understands.

“Heather!” She cries out, tears streaming down her face. “I miss you!”

I would cry if angels could. Instead I sang to my mother a lullaby. Composed of notes of love and joy and all that is the Divine, my song rained down upon her head.

Rained like the leaves had on my tired body, my worn shell.

But it is not her time. She has much left to do, so much left to say.

So I blow a kiss and the wind tells her it is time to go.

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