Between the Lines
truth, fiction, and what remains unsaid.
My mother left a year ago this week.
It was a cloudless night in late November, the last gasp of gold on the trees, air tinged with the first breath of winter.
She died on her birthday — “on her actual birthday?” everyone repeats — coincidence, symmetry, a statistic. A move that felt curiously in character. It was just like her not to want a fuss, to pac…