January 3, 2014
This morning I had a different dream about my mother.
Mama, who died less than two years ago, wasn’t in my dream about her. Instead two of her close friends were.
I saw my own face smile and inexplicably merge with theirs.
Upon waking, my relief astounded me.
Her friends are here; she no longer is, but they are.
And these women (there are many more than the two from my dream) hold something inestimable: memories of Mama. News from her. Things I’ve never known or been able to see.
So today, during my sons’ first snow day of the year, while they squabbled, read Asterix, squabbled, played Snap-Circuits, squabbled, ate lunch, I started writing a letter to Mama’s friends.