Was it your fault? What befell her? Daughter, wife, teacher, or mother? How long ago? What could you not say? Did she ever see her namesake? How often do you think of her? And what about the houseplants?

"Mom I have to poop. Bad."
The spike of terror that runs through me is one known well by caregivers worldwide.

But after a minute I’m struck by the oddness of feeling good by covering ground I’ve tread before. Going back the way you came isn’t always the best path. It’s really the opposite of what we’re doing here.

So I will only keep my eyes on the road enough to keep the wheels between the lines. Thank you for the help, but sorry I can’t. There’s too much to miss out here.