When my mother returned to the river that day—the last of her life—time buckled, making portents and symbols of what had seemed insignificant details. Time tangled, bringing together her beginning, her middle, and her end.
Did she go back to La Estancia to say goodbye to herself? I’ll never know. But I can be certain that there she had found her place in the world—and that for me, now, the world had become timeless.