Mother’s Day


You’d never know we grew up in that place. It took us a half hour just to find where the house had stood. Everything was changed, from the road name–we grew up on Route 217, now known as Adelaide Lane–to the placement of the creek, to the very trees themselves.

It was Jay who figured it out, pointing at the short brick staircase that once had led to the back porch, now nearly hidden by nettles.

“This was the kitchen,” he said, gesturing at the towering clumps of chokeweed and bracken. “And that was the living room.”

I walked to the corner that had been her bedroom. Along the edge was a thick hedge of gorse and thistle, the tendrils twisted into an impenetrable tangle. But beneath the knots of spine-covered vine and jagged leaves I could make out a rectangle of rusted iron and splintered wood.

“Jay,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. “I think I may have found it.”


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