she tells me she can’t stop thinking of it, of my mother’s smile, in spite of finding her mother in bathtub, in spite of getting cancer, and i understand, because i can’t either

i sit outside all belly in new light on the rocking chair my husband brought for me, the one my grandmother used to rock her babies quiet, and i sit in my apron while deer tiptoe past on slim ankles, their white tails like crinolin, i sit and i stare into her face two hours ahead of me, four provinces away and she in her blue lazy boy

and i tell my mother about her smile, about the way we can’t stop thinking about it, and she bows her head low as if praying, soft palm to cheek and says, “i didn’t used to, you know” and i listen. “what do you mean, mum?”

“before i got married… before university…” i wait. “before i met Jesus.”

aiden is watching her, now, too, the way Christ tugs up her cheeks and he’s mesmerized by the light that dances off the screen and i hope he heard it, the last part, the bit that says my mum smiles because she met Jesus

soon it’s goodbye and waving and pulling loaves from oven gold-warm and son breaking into crust so hungry and me, letting him because it fills him

and when he’s full, his turn to smile and it’s the overflow of needing nothing else

the spilling of crumbs from lips to world, the saying, i am nothing, He is everything, please pass the wine

with ann

291. deer walking past
292. seedlings tall, pushing off lid of greenhouse plastic
293. the sound of snow melting
294. the sound of heart pumping
295. little baby with seizures making sounds again
296. painting aiden’s new bedroom
297. buying new children’s books
298. weaving spring flowers into wreath for door
299. son with bread crumbs on lips
300. my mother