A tiny little turtle, maybe the size of a half-dollar, ducked and wove through our pond, the mama close by, drifting with a sentinel eye above water. A night heron was already scoping on the perimeter, and a skinny coyote waited by the pepper tree.

When I left home decades ago, my mom tucked a letter into my backpack, which I didn’t find until I was a state away. She wrote that she knew she had to let me go, but she also still wanted to protect me from everything out there.

Today we celebrated her. Born 85 years ago, still with us in many ways, not as much in others. I watched that tiny little turtle, and saw myself. The mama, and saw my mom.

The night heron and coyote, and saw everything.