taking a pottery class at the senior center. Never too late to play with mud, she says.”
That glimpse of my mother’s continuing engagement with life—her refusal to stagnate even in her eighties—bolstered my own determination.
If Helen Carter could embrace new experiences at eighty-three, surely her daughter could reimagine her life at fifty-eight.
With a final wave, I began the journey south, the house on Maple Avenue receding in my rearview mirror.
A structure that had sheltered three generations of our family. Now passing to new owners who would
