Buried in the snow
It was Susan’s 56th birthday and Daphne was putting in an hour of what she called compulsory mother duty. A piped version of Nights in White Satin was just audible in the tiny room. Daphne suppressed a knowing grin: “Just what the truth is I can’t say anymore…” This early-years yarn of Mum’s had become more fanciful with every recounting.
Gravestones on the trail
Her just-worn-in hiking boots felt stiff and unwelcoming as she pulled at the laces. Next, she hefted her overweight pack and shifted it awkwardly on her shoulders, closed the belt buckle with a tight snap, and picked up her traditional walking stick. In days gone by the stick was used as a grave marker for pilgrims who didn’t make it. Like Bob’s kongo-tsue she’d selected one with a brass bell that jangled with every step. It was supposed to scare away bears, and serve as a constant reminder to focus on each moment