“That must have been your husband’s idea,” my mother said, her voice marbled with doubt and wonder, when I told her during my last visit to Maine that Jeff and I had purchased via the internet a small parcel near Winnemucca, Nevada. 

“Have you been to the area?”  I asked, trying not to furrow my brow cavernously.  

“I’ve been to Winnemucca,” my mother replied.  “I like New Mexico.”

With faith in my mother’s ways,  I held to the eventuality that she would respond to my news with grace.

 In June Jeff and I, with our son, drove behind our property into a narrow valley, its verdant lushness supported by a winding creek.  I found growing there, smoky-green junipers and the palest of pink roses and picked a tiny piece of each to press into my notebook.

When I got home I called my mother.  “Can you believe it?”  I asked her answering machine.   “We have wild roses and junipers in the canyon behind us,  just like we had at camp.”  Camp was a beach cottage in Maine where my family spent summers when I was growing up.  I emailed her photos of my husband and my son and me, standing on our land.

“You all look so happy,” she said, when she called back.  She sent me a note:  “And I loved your message about the roses and the junipers.”

My mother is a blessing in my life.