Abilene
Friday
The Pine Valley Trail smells of damp earth and crushed pine needles, the kind of green, breathing quiet that usually settles my thoughts.
Today, it doesn’t, but it softens.
Mara walks beside me with an easy, unbothered stride, boots scuffing the packed dirt like she’s done this a thousand times. She’s wearing sunglasses despite the clouds, hands tucked into her jacket pockets, humming under her breath.
“This trail hasn’t changed much,” she says. “Your mom used to drag me out here even when I complained the whole way.”
I glance at her. “You complained?”
“Oh, constantly,” she says cheerfully. “Bonnie said fresh air was good for my attitude. I said my attitude was fine indoors.”
I smile despite myself.
“This was always my favorite trail,” I say. “I used to race pinecones down that slope up ahead. I was convinced they could hear me cheering.”
Mara laughs, sharp and delighted. “She told me about that. Said you were very competitive for someone who apologized to trees when you bumped into them.”
I wince. “That tracks.”
We pass the bend where the trees thin just enough to let light scatter across the path, and memory comes rushing in. Sticky fingers, scuffed knees, my mother’s laugh echoing through the branches.
“She made everything feel like a game,” I say. “Even chores. Especially chores. She’d sing while we cleaned the hives, made up lyrics about bees unionizing.”
Mara snorts. “She did that as a kid too. Drove our parents insane. She once rewrote the entire school anthem because she thought it was ‘emotionally uninspired.’”
I laugh out loud at that, the sound surprising both of us.
“She always cut sandwiches diagonally,” I say. “Said it made them taste better.”
“That was her hill to die on,” Mara agrees. “She did it with toast too. Claimed symmetry improved morale.”
I shake my head, smiling. “She packed honey sandwiches for hikes. Too much honey. Always dripped everywhere.”
“She never learned moderation,” Mara says fondly. “When she loved something, she went all in. Food. People. Ideas.”
We walk a few steps in comfortable silence before Mara adds, “She was fearless in the strangest ways. Afraid of wide-open spaces, sure, but she’d stand up to anyone if she thought they were being unfair.”
That makes my chest tighten, warm and sharp at once.
“She used to make me stand behind her when she argued with the hardware store guy,” I say. “Like I was backup.”
Mara grins. “She did that with me too. Except I was usually the problem.”
I glance sideways at her. “You?”
“Absolutely,” she says. “Bonnie was the peacemaker. I was the firecracker. She’d calm me down, talk me out of doingsomething impulsive, then help me do a slightly safer version of it.”
That sounds right. That sounds exactly like my mother.
“She taught me plant names on this trail,” I say. “Quiz style. I always called foxglove fairy bells.”
“She hated foxglove,” Mara replies. “Said it was too pretty for something that could kill you.”
I nod. “Grandma said the same thing.”
