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34 the minnesota review Alice Fogel Back Home That day I only noticed how the light encircled the sidewalk below. And the way the tree by the window was suddenly green, and how the robins sang there that morning so furiously full of joy that I could hardly hear his voice breaking, on the phone. The white dogwoods sending scent, the garden patch begging for seed, the magnolias heavy with spring. The day my sweet mother tried to die. It was April, too much blooming to bear, too many insufferable seasons, birthdays, and more work yet to do. Another day to rise to, another day of lies. Last spring I saw her hold up the dark soil in her two hands like a mother, and when she said how beautiful, his indifference fell on her like pain. It was the same as hers for him. My father knows as well as I the way time does its work, what is material, and what passes for the living, for the left. That a simple word or deed can irrevocably effect, that errors and sorrows choke like weeds. What follows is what we're left with now, knowing more of loss, and feeling how much more of life's to live. There are those we love but are unable to see or hold. It's not we that keep them alive, and thank God, for we are imperfect, and we forget. And yet it's in us to give more. Each tone, each touch, leaves Fogel 35 its imprint, like the children's muddy shoes on the carpet, or a body so many years upon the marriage bed. This was one more sad deep sleep, but meant to last; his waking her one more saddened cry of love, but one new moment of saving grace. That threshold between the rooms of living and death is the greatest of all fine lines. He lifted her in his arms and carried her back home. ...