I stumbled upon my mother's handkerchief in the cornfield early this morning. Halfway down the row I spotted it--white but soiled, cast in the mire of recent rains. Only one side of the stitched hem was visible, the letter L poking out from the furrow as if to get my attention. I stared at it ...all the emotions of the past three weeks threatening to rise up and choke me right then and there.
Twice now, I'd walked the field where Mamma had sometimes wandered late at night. Like our sheep, she'd followed the same trails till ruts developed. I couldn't help wondering where the well-trod path had led her by the light of the lonely moon. Honestly, though, 'tis only in the daylight that I've been compelled to go there, drawn by thoughts of her and the hope of some further word, whenever that might come....
"Mamma...where are you?" I whispered to the breeze. "What things don't we know?"