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When I was a child of seven my mother died unexpectedly.  My last view of her was from a second-floor window watching her leave on a white sheet draped stretcher into the waiting ambulance.  It was the same window where together we had watched baby birds hatch in a nest the spring before. 


Many springs have passed since that last view, but in my mind’s eye I can still catch glimpses of her.  My memories have become fewer and faded over time, but there remain moments that I retain as visual images, some even accompanied by taste and smell. I represent these moments in Glimpses of Her.  I can now recognize glimpses of her in me when I read aloud to children and search for the scent of lily-of-the-valley in the spring. I can now comfort my younger self.

Glimpses of Her

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