My mother is ill, and God may be calling her home. I come and I go to her house and the hospital and stop at a path in the woods with my bike.
There is a clearing under the power lines where purple thistle grows. I have been watching it change life stages over the past two months. It is in its final glory, white and fluffy like cotton, its seeds ready to fly away. To go elsewhere.
I am forced into the here and now, the embrace of dignity, the simply being, and there is beauty.
There is beauty.