Then my mother became my child. I'd felt so light on the teeter-totter that I was surprised by such power, holding someone so important in the sky with nothing but my weight on the other side. It was kind of thrilling, kind of strange. And I noticed the earth is jagged with faults and fractures. Grass staggers in uneven dirt and the shoreline zigs and zags. You can never glue the two uneven pieces of a broken teacup perfectly together.
When she died, I worried about her as if I'd driven her to her first day of school and left her there alone. For weeks I wondered, did she find her classroom? Is she making friends in heaven? I'm trying to glue pieces of the cup together. Heaven is roughly what I mean. If God ever used that word, he spoke in Hebrew. Nothing, it turns out, has a simple surface. Maybe it's the missing and the faults we have to love.
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