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Writing Again

I have not written much since my mother's death on April 21. I covered the World Voices Festival because I had committed to do so, but it was difficult. I kept my journal going. Now I am working on a long essay and writing for several hours every day. A writer makes something of every experience, including death. The essay is about my mother's will and wills in general, what they say to us, how they are written, often in legalese without any feeling. I’ve looked at holographic wills—written by hand—and studied Ben Franklin’s will and others. In other words, I’m into a project again and this feels good, it feels right.

I took a break last weekend, Mother’s Day weekend, the first one without my own mother, and I went upstate to spend time with my family there. My son-in-law is building a permaculture forest in a pasture surrounded by mountains. My daughter and I drove up there prepared to be put to work. We helped plant strawberries for several hours. I took rests to stretch my back, the dogs lying beside me or romping in one of the three newly dug irrigation pools. The sun was already strong though it was windy and deceptively cool. Mother’s Day brunch the next day was communal, friends and their children, French toast and fruit salad, and warm enough to sit on the porch or meander outside. We left after the brunch to get back to the city and our computers. But I could have stayed on that mountaintop forever.
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