The road home is all down hill, with the sun setting behind me, coming down behind clouds until the sky glows, the candy light dripping down on the shivering trees as they await a little warmth.
I stop for a moment to stare, to feel the muddy gravel underneath my feet, hear the bank high water rushing through the creek. These weeks of in between, of reflection before the breaking birth, are like inebriated little children, rushing and pushing to end up exactly where they are, steadied by wind and root and good black earth.
Branches float downstream with the current, small waves cresting. No resistance, no argument, just letting go in the murky brown water. I feel eyes that are not eyes on me, time, past and future and now crumbled into a paper ball, touching, and my daughters stare from then and once was and sit quietly on the fence waiting. Will I become rooted? Or will I float by, at ease, accepting, growing stronger in the light of a day ending?
Will I know the difference?