The rain came a day late. I was in the middle of writing about our horse back riding, a place I’d been once as a little girl, when Marko ran in, “Mom Mom Mom.” He waved the trail map at me insisting I pay attention. So many of our conversations stemmed from intuited gestures, the space between knowing and articulation. I forgot what I wanted to write. Something about how we ended up in hockey quite by accident; a cut from tryouts on a soccer team when the sky drew scarlet ribbons into dawn.
