It’s rare, but on occasion, in a morning fog, the Sainte Victoire mountain can disappear. It’s supposed to be there when I turn and look at the bottom of the hill. And of course it is, but it’s alarming for that moment when I can’t see it.  And how fast a brain can travel within instability. I am no longer at the bottom of the Montaiguet, but in Herberger’s basement, head swimming in a rack of hanging garments, searching for the steady and sure permanence of my mother’s legs. I shoo away sleeves with my waving hands, trying to clear a path to safety. Hangers give a high pitch squeal as they scrape against metal, and my heart, if it only could, tries to send up the same signal. Tagged with the Herberger’s Rose, the clerk grabs my hand. “Now, c’mon, you’re a big girl…no need for this.” But fear has a way of making you small, and I shook my head no. Of course she was only a couple of discount racks away, but the relief was the scale of soldiers returning from war, and I ran into her arms that were extended, as long and as welcoming as a mother’s could be. 

I beg the clouds to move. I give them a “shoo” with my panicked heart’s extension. I am frozen at the bottom of the hill. I want to be big. I am not big. I just need a glimpse. A tiny outline of the mountain. A sign to know that it is still here. (That my mother is still here.) I return in the warmth of the afternoon. The clouds have broken. The mountain that never left is clear and in sight and I am ever held. In a big girl world, my heart squeals easily, not from fear, but in love.