When I am among the trees, especially the willows and the honey locust, equally the beech, the oaks and pines, they give off such hints of gladness. I would almost say that they save me, and daily.~ From Thirst by Mary Oliver

I always try to get the window seat on flights. I can rest my head against the side of the airplane and look down on the world, witness a new day in the sky. When I flew into New Mexico, I caught my breath. I'd forgotten the subtle colors of the desert--lavender, umber and terracotta brushed over the landscape. Remnants of sunlight grazing the earth. I'd forgotten how much I missed the mountains. Living in the Lowcountry of Charleston, those rugged peaks had been wiped from my mind from years past residing in the west. Yet quickly the memories surfaced, like a latent image bubbling up into reality from a chemical bath. I traveled to New Mexico with my two sisters to visit our brother-in-law, our late sister's husband. David invited us to visit him at his cabin in the mountains, a short drive from Taos.

David's a mountain man. Fit and strong, his Texas accent still intact after decades in New Mexico. He'd been married to our sister for fifty years, Mary Anne the oldest of us four. He loved her well. Loves her still. We were there to enjoy the fresh air, the quiet, and each other. David drove us for miles on the black ribbons of highway cut through the mountains--towns like Red River and Eagle's Nest. We visited the St. James Hotel in Cimarron where gunslingers like Kit Carson and Wyatt Earp laid their heads. The days were cool and the tree-covered mountain ranges seemed to embrace us with their presence, the sky nearly always clear blue, the clouds unblemished, bleached white.

One day we all strapped into David's ATV and he drove us painstakingly up a summit on a road no passenger car's tires could withstand, our destination Mary Anne's memorial site. My other two sisters had released her ashes several years ago after she passed away, however, I'd not had the honor to do so. On the way up the rocky terrain, I'd prayed, "Lord, let there be some sign for me of her presence." A grove of Aspen trees encircled her memorial, the dates of her life engraved on a tree trunk. David handed me the bag of ashes. I held the fine dust of her mortal body in my hands and looked to heaven and said, "Oh, Lord, we are so grateful for Mary Anne's life. She was full of love and light. We loved her and she loved us with such grace. She cannot come back to us, but we will go to her. Thank you for her life." And just as I released her ashes onto the ground, a butterfly flitted briefly in the air. I looked up at the Aspen trees. I could hear their rustling, see their gentle movement. Hints of gladness laced with sorrow on that mountainside, there with David and my sisters.