Moving her mother in was easier than she had expected.

There was work, of course. Caretaking wasn’t effortless. Never that.

But they found their rhythm and fell into a dance of sorts. Fluid. Pleasurable even.

She learned to measure time not by the minute or the hour, but in the cyclicity of naps and small hungers sated with mere bites of favorite recipes.

When the sunlight kissed the porch, they ventured outside. They talked some, remembered much, then sat in contented silence and gazed at the hills blanketed by the colors of autumn.

The cold breeze was a command to retreat into the warm house.

She had once welcomed the falling leaves and a chill in the air, but no more.

She had always hated the heat, but her mother was never comfortable in the cold.

If ever evidence of love was required, all she would have to do is offer up the average temperature of the house as quantitative proof of her devotion.

Moving her mother in was harder than she had expected.

Amy Marques

Amy Marques grew up between languages and cultures, and learned, from an early age, the multiplicity of narratives. Her sense of otherness has made her a collector of stories. She has penned three children’s books, barely read medical papers, occasional blogs, and numerous letters. She lives in California where she writes, takes long walks, teaches at university, and tries to make a dent in her to-be-read pile.


  1. I love cyclical work. This narrative was a pleasure to read.

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