The photograph was in a shoebox under my mother's bed. Someone had cut my face out of it.
I recognized the scissors work. It was my mother's hand, precise and angry.
I was twenty-five then. I had moved to the city, and she never forgave me.
Now I'm fifty-five, back in the mountain town at the end of the plow route. I deliver mail for a living, and I've been delivering her groceries for the past week.
The home health aide comes every afternoon. She's the one who found the photo and showed it to me.
The takeout menu on the fridge is covered in my mother's notes: 'No salt, extra rice, call before you come.'
She doesn't remember cutting the photo. She doesn't remember the fight.
I don't know if I'm here to forgive her or to finally let myself be the person I was becoming when I left.
But the person I'm becoming now, when no one's watching, is someone who doesn't cut people out anymore.