She held me longer than usual this time as we said our goodbyes. She rubbed the clay of my back, sculpting my shape in the space before her so she could stand in that kitchen after I drove away and remember clearly what she once made. We both cried. Hers were familiar tears, those of parting. She is my good mother. Mine flowed from fears that I may have lived a careless life. I am her oldest son who lives now beyond the edge of the drive.