My mother didn’t go outside for a year. Under the wide ceiling sky, each step was a climb up Mt. Everest. The bag on her walker carried all travel necessities: phone, pouch of unscented tissues, lipstick, maybe a bottle of water. Unlike me and unlike earlier, she didn’t hanker for the street or its tributaries. Sometimes a hint of longing for the drive to the horse farms, dusked deer on the hill, wild turkeys blocking the road. Even her small patio was beyond desire, a step-over sill too far. I am telling you because in my mother’s geranium hanging from my eave, bushtits are weaving a long cave nest of lint and lust.