Charcoal Dust

Time has a way of folding in on itself, blurring what was and what is. My mother turns 60 this year, a milestone not just of age, but of her perseverance.

Nearly three years ago, she broke her femur, and I recently returned to Georgia to sit beside her through another surgery. As she rested in her hospital bed, I studied her hands, the same hands that once held mine, now etched with history.

I imagined sketching them in charcoal, watching the dust drift as I traced each ridge and softened edge. Every line marks a small chapter in a lifetime of resilience. Her face has changed little, but her hands tell the truth of her journey.

I was reminded recently that nostalgia carries roots in pain. It’s a longing stitched with both love and loss, a quiet tug at the heart reminding us where we’ve been and what we carry forward.

In February, my nephew, Atlas Grey, arrived, brand new and precious, a new soul at the start of its journey.

I pictured drawing him not in cool, shadowed tones but in warm earth tones, the soft reddish shimmer of his blond hair, the fullness of his rounded cheeks, the gentle bow of his tiny mouth, that perfect newborn scrunch.

Life shifts and stays the same in the very same breath. History lingers in the hands of those who came before us, and new life carries echoes of their familiar footsteps.