The moss in the Oregon rainforest is magical.
I discovered it during my first spring here when it rained 29 days straight.
It grows on almost anything and the varieties are astonishing.
On my fence, I find elfin gardens and green seascapes.
The alders are adorned with brittle beards growing on air and rain.
The stumps of long-dead forest giants sprout with tufts of feathery growth.
Spring is coming. So is the Moss!
Days of Wine and Roses
by Pamela Wight
I’m on my way to see my mom this weekend, and taking little with me except some old albums.
When I visit her in late summer, she seems so less of what she used to be. Because of dementia, she can’t remember what I told her five minutes earlier, like “your clean clothes are in the drawer” or “dinner is in 45 minutes.”
Seconds after the conversation, my once bright, quick mom asks: “where are my clean socks?” and then “isn’t it time to walk down to the dining room?”
But when I direct mom to her floral comfy couch and open up the big battered black album, the one that sat in the bottom of her hope chest for decades, her dulled eyes brighten, and she sits up straighter.
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