My mama is here and we are early mornings in the yard, pulling and digging and planting, She-- up before us all, walking the perimeter, dreaming up hosta beds and salsa gardens and old stump ideas.  We are fighting ancient, giant growth and its rambling roots.  We are tracking the sunshine and the shade and the in-between spots.  We are afternoons in the nursery and at the farmer's market, learning new plants, reading tags, pulling out our phones and googling.  There is dirt in my toes, in my fingers, in my knees.  The calendar is open on the table to next month.  They'll all be here then and so we are talking over the days. We are scheming up mountain hikes and boat rides and floating the water to the Pack River Store for cheesecakes and lemonades.  I am trying to talk her into bicycles.  She loves walking.  We walked all over this town yesterday.  We walked to the market.  We walked through the oldest parts.  We walked to dessert after dinner.  And she walked early that morning on her own, talking to my dad along the river, early enough to see the sunrise and to be home in time for eggs and coffee.  Dad's voice thickened on the phone later in the day when he told me:
I miss her, you know.  She's nice to come home to and I miss that.  

Yeah.  I know about the missing.  I do.