The Gathering
Not long ago, I cared for my aging Mother as she flirted with the landscape of the deep woods of dementia. She would wander in and out as if testing the waters of hide and go seek and hold on and release. I worked part time, thinking it was safe to leave her at home for only a few short hours a day. The last season of Autumn in which she was still mobile and not quite as fragile is etched in my mind. I would frequently find her as I drove up the driveway, standing in the front yard, gathered up inside the space of her enchantment and beholding. My Mother was utterly enthralled and joyful. There in the midst of the swirling of leaves she had gathered and unknowingly released. Her chosen receptacle for the placement of her harvest was a laundry basket. She tenderly gathered the leaves and offered them gently off of the rake and into their place. She did not seem to notice them leave in the breeze through the deep holes that could not contain them. At that time and in that Autumn, I