Tomorrow, for the only day in the foreseeable future, the temperature is supposed to reach 670. And a week from tomorrow, my mother will have been gone for five months. We buried her on one of the last beautiful days of fall—on All Saints’ Day 2013. Though I grieved then and grieve her still, I am grateful for that one beautiful 700 day on which my siblings and I were able to bury her at the top of a stunningly beautiful mountain in West Virginia.
The day stands out in my memory for the unexplained gifts we were given—a beautiful day when the forecast predicted chilly rain, a gracious woman pastor in a cemetery where no woman had ever performed a service, and strangers who stood at attention and saluted as the funeral cortege passed.