A place untouched by my mother’s table.
A home my children had never been made to leave.
We walked through the sleet to the back of the property.
The path was nearly hidden beneath weeds and ice. Brambles clutched at our coats. The old orchard stood beyond, black branches against the winter sky. And there, tucked behind two bare apple trees, was the cottage.
It was small.
White paint peeling. Green shutters crooked. One window cracked. The porch sagged slightly in the middle.
It was perfect.
The key stuck at first, then turned.
Inside, dust floated in cold light.
There was a stone fireplace, a tiny kitchen, shelves along one wall, and faded curtains printed with blue birds. In the corner stood Grandma Rose’s old rocking chair.
On the mantel was a photograph of me as a child, asleep in that very chair, covered with the blue quilt.
