traces of her
1977 Not all that long ago I stood at my mother's dresser shuffling through the things she left behind. Searching for remnants of her in the small bottles of perfume, half used containers of cream, and her favourite brown leather gloves. All things that were once so ordinary now held much wonder and charm. I would wander into my parent's bedroom when no one else was around and look through her clothes. Leaning in to her closet, desperate for any hint of her familiar scent, still able to hear her voice when I closed my eyes. I spent many hours in there, sitting on her bed, looking in the mirror, crying myself weary. Even now there seems to be just a small amount of myself left back there in that eleven year old girl. I knew then, as I do now, that God was near. That He would not walk away from me even when the time came that I'd try to walk away from Him. Through the ...