A restless meditation last night. After writing so much about my father, I wish I had more to say about my mother, wish I actually had a chance to know her.
But that was not to be; she was yet another happiness unjustly ripped away from my father not long after I entered this world.
I was too young to know her, too young to remember her face; all I have is a song, a vague humming at the edges of memory. That’s all I have of her, and I hold it tight.
My father never spoke much of what happened. He would only say she suddenly fell ill. No one in the village could help; none in Loudwater knew what to make of it, and Waterdeep was far too great a journey. She would never have made it. She wasted away and died as quickly as the illness came upon her.
One tenday, she was holding me, humming that song; the next, nothing – she was gone.
Time to move. The snow is letting up, and these pelts tend not to sell themselves.