She was beginning to realize grief began its gestation even before someone had died.
Her son would come home daily and tell her about their class tadpoles. How they didn’t look anything like frogs yet. LImbless. Simply gills and crescent shaped. “Hard to describe,” he’d said.
So amorphous then. Like gestating grief? One that while still amorphous, limbless, was already weighted. Especially as her ailing mother would stand at her door waving goodbye, as her daughter was about to drive home from her weekly visit. There were her own children to pick up from school. There was a normalcy she was forced to adhere to.
Her mother, bent over her walker, was in shadow, the setting winter sun sharply delineating her shrunken form from behind her, through the foyer windows.
Then her mother turned to feel the earth of one of her hanging foyer plants, and her daughter felt that weight. Especially after this last blood clot in her mother’s arm. The one that could have travelled up rather than down and caused instant death. She felt that weight now every time she left from her weekly visits, of whether she would ever see her mother again.