The family would be here soon. It was by tacit agreement to keep Mother’s Day free to get together.
Everyone brought something for the table and she provided paper plates and napkins, plastic cutlery and cups for the kiddies. The old camping stove would be going full pelt making endless pots of tea.
Memories in the making, each year another baby or toddler, boyfriend, girlfriend, newly weds, and so the cycle would start again.
Laughter echoed off the trees, bouncing up from the pine needle carpet, whoops of glee ringing out when youngsters succeeded in finding hidden treasure.
She settled herself in her camping chair, a mug of tea in the holder and a plate of sandwiches and pastries on her lap.
She heard the happy chatter of babes just learning to talk, the joyful noise of dogs barking as they played or got in the way of those who wished to race.
She felt the sun warming her skin from without and her heart warmed from within.
Her ashes were scattered where she had last sat.
Here in this place, a daughter was united with her parents, a wife, mother, grandmother and great-grandmother was now watching over her family, four generations ranging from eighty to eight months.
She was everywhere, her voice in birdsong, her endless love reaching beyond the canopy of the trees, a part of her living in them all.