An Overnight.

The bride is recovering from a 24 hour visit from her mother.
She just sent me this photo, titled, Thinking of You.


It all started with quinces. I got a call from the co-op in her neighborhood, "Your crate of quinces is in!"

"Mom, the battery is dead in my car, can you pick me up at the barn?"

My heart slows and my breaths become deeper as my car climbs the dirt road to Monastery Stables. I walk past three riders grooming their horses, several paddocks and an endless patch of mint in bloom. The butterscotch cat yells at me as I step into the barn. Oh, the sweet smell of a well loved stable, the hay, the leather, the animals. I see her, her back is to me. I would know her miles away, in a crowd; I would recognize the bob of her head, her straight shoulders,the curves of her body in breeches. She does not know I am there. I watch a minute and call her name. The smile.

We visit each horse and I meet some new ones, I feel my body relax a little more with each one I pet. I pull tufts of green grass and pass handfuls through the fence of the paddock. I would do almost anything for the familiar nuzzle of a horses mouth in my hand. I stop to pick a bouquet of mint for Elizabeth.

Sitting in my daughter's kitchen I am given a little snack and a glass of wine. Before darkness completely falls we decide to give charging the battery a shot. I have never done this before, and am quite afraid she is going to be electrocuted, but the worst thing that happens is the car's alarm starts as it mistakenly thinks the battery is being stolen.

We are charged and head out for a pizza. Friday night, it takes us about four tries to find a place with a table for two. Salad, burgers and lovely white Sangria. Back home, it's after nine and the bride wants to make pumpkin muffins. I am too tired to even watch her make pumpkin muffins.

Instead, we climb to the third floor guest room where my childhood bed always makes me feel extra welcome. Snuggling under the covers with the cat wedged between us we discuss Thanksgiving, leaf through magazines and laugh. She goes down to her room, the cat stays with me. I enjoy his warmth and remember the days my daughter would slip in bed with us, one time clearly telling us it was not fair she had to sleep alone when we did not.

Fearing my quinces will be sold we are at the co-op by eight the next morning. Out to breakfast, we both choose two eggs, hers over medium, mine over lightly. Her toast is cinnamon raisin, mine multigrain, we split a side of sausage and each have coffee. Spoiled as we are, I can not help but comment such lovely toast really deserves better than Smuckers Jam packets. I will not turn into an old lady who carries around her own jam, I tell myself.

We visit the florist, the Paperia, a spice shop and our favorite, a little consignment shop. It is easy to find something that can not be left behind. Today's treasure was a set of eight small footed crystal bowls. "Sorbet, the Bride says, these will be perfect for sorbet." I agree but secretly hope one visit she will serve me something homemade in them and then remind myself she quite likely would make the sorbet.

Ikea is up next, just in case they have anything wonderful we must have. It was a lot of walking for pastry papers and cute zip-lock bags.....

It is now three and I must head home. I climb the stairs, pack my bag, kiss good-bye and drive the 130 miles home, comforted by the scent of quinces.