Isn't it funny how a piece of unfinished writing will stay with you through the years?
One of the first essays I attempted was a bittersweet reflection on my mother-in-law's move from her small-town home into the home of one of her sons.
I wrote about a woman losing hold of a Southern way of life... of a South that is changing more and more every day. I wrote, too, of her losing hold on her own life as her memories were starting to slip away. I wrote of her longing to go home, not just to the house she'd lived in for forty years, but that home which brings peace to our hearts.
My mother-in-law has finally made it home. Though I will miss her, I know her memory will stay with me. And maybe now, I'll be able to put into words what I wanted to say all those years ago. I think it's about time I finished that piece of writing.
