She used to think she would find peace when her children were older, when people stopped being so difficult, if she lived in a different house, on a different road, or in a different country. Now she knows it is inside her. It is present as she writes, and in the blackberries ripening on the bush in her backyard. Present in the birds singing as she walks her dog and lifts her face to the sinking sun. Moonlight, music, her chocolate cookies warm from the oven. A sweet memory from another time recalled and savored. There are beautiful compensations for old age. A different face looks back at her from the mirror now, and her stomach, once home to four different souls, remains soft and round despite morning yoga and afternoon workouts. But her heart beats on, her lungs breathe in air scented by storms, and the breeze blowing through the branches of the old maple tree whispers peace.

Stacey Bartlett