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“Mommy, come. I’ve found this path and there are so many flowers.”
It’s morning, and our second day camping in Jasper, Alberta, our favorite place on earth with its mountain peaks—like a father’s hands cupped, shielding this sacred hollow of water and spruce from the rest of the world.
I leave my coffee and follow my oldest son to the path he’s found and he points out the daisies, the bluebells, the buttercups.
I was sitting in a hotel room on a king-sized bed at a conference.
I was sitting there alone, not minding being alone, wishing that I missed him.
Wishing I missed the man I’d been married to for eleven years and forgetting what the touch of his hand felt like. His calloused, farm-boy hand, the one that found me across the duvet those three years I relapsed into anorexia and sleeping pills, the one which fed me ice chips as I birthed two miracle boys, the one which always gave me the first strawberry of the season from our garden.
And I crawled onto the king-sized mattress then, stretched out across the miles of bed and cried.
