The grouse began drumming as the sun was just beginning to streak pink across the horizon—a low, rhythmic pulse echoing through the trees, like the forest remembering the heartbeat of spring.
Barefoot, I stepped onto the soft green grass. The earth, still dappled with patches of melting snow, welcomed me with a chill and the thrum of new life.
I carried a steaming cup of ceremonial cacao to the small, white filigree garden set—an heirloom once belonging to my grandmother, then my mother. Their hands touched it. Their stories linger in its delicate curves.
As a child, I held tea parties for stuffed animals and imaginary friends on that delicate-looking furniture when it beckoned to me from the manicured lawn of my grandparents’ Nebraska farm. Now an altar, the white, doily-like filigree carries more than its weight in wrought iron—it holds memory, moonlight, magic, and the soft laughter of children across time.
I sat. I prayed. I sipped. Heart open, I honored the women who shaped me—now beyond the veil, yet so deeply present. Their love stirs in the breeze, shimmers in sunlight, and wakens the motherliness in my bones.
