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back clothesline was empty and the chinaberry tree by the walk had two lawn chairs near it. I pictured my parents here, talking, sharing news of the town and the church. I wondered how many times the conversation had turned to me at this spot.
    The back door opened with a squeak and my mother appeared, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Matt, is that you?”
    I smiled and hugged her and she laughed and cried at the same time, clinging to my neck like a wisteria vine. “When did you get here?”
    “A little bit ago.”
    “And why are you . . . ?” She pulled back and I could tell she had figured it out. My mother had an inner sense of everything from politics to which eligible single man belonged with which eligible single woman. She could overhear a conversation and precisely diagnose the relational problem. Call it horse sense or a sixth sense, she was always able to put two and two together.
    “Matt, you’re not going to mess things up, are you?”
    I had prepared for that question, but I didn’t know it would come so quickly. I used a tactic of my own to avoid it.
    “Mom, I’m starving. You don’t have anything for breakfast, do you?”
    She knew I was playing her, but she joyfully led the way into the house and fried eggs and hash browns and bacon. She cut two English muffins and put them in the toaster.
    “Where’s Dad?” I said.
    “You know what he does on Mondays. A man needs to get away from the world’s troubles, Matthew. Every day has enough of its own.”
    She said my name as if using it would make me understand the deeper meaning, the Scriptural reference clear as the pain on her face.
    In conversations with my mother, through college and beyond, she rarely asked about my classes or work. Most of our conversations centered on the town, the people, her physical problems, and whatever social or political crisis was going on in the world. It seemed easier to talk about these things.
    She filled my plate and put it down, still steaming, as if handing me a serving of my childhood. The smell of cooked meat and eggs mingled with the memories and I took a deep breath. There was enough food on the plate to feed a small village, but this was my mother’s way. A child of the Depression, she knew what it was like to be hungry and have next to nothing and still be better-off than most. She took any chance for abundance.
    “Have you heard from Ben lately?” I said.
    She nodded. “He called last week.”
    “Cindy and the kids?”
    “They’re fine. I always wanted to give my children wings so they could fly as far as possible but then fly back. And you’ve flown back to us, haven’t you?” She patted my hand as I took a napkin from the stack in the center of the table.
    “Let me bless the food,” she said, bowing her head. She was losing hair around her crown.
    I closed my eyes and bowed my head. In the house of my youth, prayer was not just for praise and petition, but also for teaching those in hearing distance.
    “Lord, we thank you for a new day, a new week. Thank you for your blessings. We don’t take them for granted. And thank you for bringing Matt. Bless him, Lord. Show him your love. Your grace. Give him wisdom about whatever he’s trying to do here. Now bless this food to the nourishment of our bodies. In Jesus’ name, amen.”
    “Amen,” I said, spreading the napkin on a leg.
    She spoke of the health of people at church and workedher way around the neighborhood, hitting the highs and lows. When I asked about the Blackwood family, she got quiet, so I changed the subject.
    “Did you see what happened to the Cubs?”
    “Wasn’t that something?” she said. “We didn’t see the game because of the evening service, but your father was heartbroken for the team and the city.”
    “I used to think if I prayed hard enough and begged God enough, he’d help the Pirates win.”
    She smiled and shook her head. “You ate and drank to that team. And when they lost, it almost killed