Beach Writer in the Rocky Mountains

          Some years later when my Mother passed away, I sat in a storage bay on a quiet summer afternoon helping my sister go through the remaining personal belongings Mother had during her last year. It was then that I found a treasure. I found the Christmas pillow. No one had wanted it. It wasn't of monetary value; it wasn't the silver tea service or heirloom jewelry that some families would prize. It didn't appeal to anyone's style. For whatever reason, the pillow had been unclaimed, discarded, and set aside in case someone would want it, perhaps the person who had given it to her. To me, it was priceless because Mother had loved it and set it out each year at Christmas time. Whenever I would telephone to wish her a "Merry Christmas," Mother would tell me that she had placed her pillow where she could see it all December long. She said that she knew I wished we could be together and that she loved me. I sat in Mother's rocking chair and held the pillow to my heart. Oh, how I wished I had come home for Christmas all those many years, knowing that she and I would have loved to spend it together. But I was raising a family far away and could not afford holiday travel. Now, time was gone, and so was Mother. I packed the pillow and mailed it to my home two thousand miles away.