Page 44 of In a Word, Yes

Just for a day or ten, wouldn’t it be neato to be incognito?

Hey, that’s pretty clever wordplay. And you know who would appreciate it? Lucy.

I open my mouth to share it with her. But no. I need to resist this tendency I have to fritter away opportunities for meaningful introspection the moment they stop being fun. Surprisingly, what comes out instead is a truth bomb I’ve been needing to own.

“No. It’s gone, and I’m back at square one,” I say, slipping on a pair of oversized square tortoiseshell frames. Which does nothing to ease the sting.

Instead, confronted by my reflection in the dinky mirror provided, I’m gobsmacked by a revelation.

I slip off the glasses, search the deeply creased eyes looking back at me. “You know, honey, y’all might just be onto something.”

Because what I see there is a burnout. A woman who couldn’t even tell you on which side of the earth the sun comes up. I see a shaft of golden wheat, sown by the Master Gardener and destined for the glorious harvest in the great by-and-by, being choked out by the enemy’s weeds here in the messy meanwhile.

I see a woman who is, at best, on autopilot. At worst, a performing monkey.

A woman who has lost her first love.

“How so?” Lucy asks. “And did you seriously justy’allme?”

The chuckle I offer is half-hearted. Because clearly my whole heart needs serious attention. “I think, Lucy ... I think maybe I need to figure out mywhyand mywho, as well.” Out of the mouths of babes, as they say. What they don’t tell you is that there will come a day when it’s your own flesh and blood, cultivated by God from infancy to womanhood, circling back to drop a divine word on you.

A warm electrical current pulses through me. Then I feel as if I’m wrapped in a consoling hug. And the beginnings of a confident assurance that has nothing to do with these adorable sunglasses.

Ready or not, this is a holy awakening.

I’m ready.

Won’t Roger be proud?

“Hey, honey, what do you say we commit to pray for each other?”

Lucy’s voice drops an octave and turns thick. “It would be my honor to pray for you, Mama.”

“And if you need permission, here it is. Buy yourself a new bra.”

She laughs a little.

“Need me to order—”

“Mom,no. I got it.” She laughs again. Then she says, “Love you.”

Ending the call feels like a physical parting.

Oh, Father God in heaven, I bet you find us amusing. Two lost sheep,each praying the other finds their way.

I stare absently at the dark glasses in my hand.

Oh, Lucy. You poor girl. Your mom is a lot.

I carefully replace the glasses. Wander in search of the down escalator. Next stop, children’s clothing. After that, who knows?

A cloud of fragrance slows my steps. Notes of gardenia make Mother’s presence tangible. What words would she have for me?

“Here for a glow-up?” The feminine voice coming from above and behind me borders on angelic.

I have to tilt my head to meet the eyes of the lithe young redhead attached to the voice. Backlit and breathtaking in a sleeveless suit in the soft salmon color of my mother’s favorite dahlia bush, which by the way fits her like a dream, is a woman with arms sculpted by Rodin. She smiles at me hopefully.

“Beg your pardon?”