Pictures

Last night in my dream I sat alone on a cushioned chair in a beige kind of waiting room. A pleasant voice behind me said, “You have one hour.” The heavy door in front of me opened and in walked my mother, looking neither thirty-four nor sixty-two. She was vibrant and ageless.

She walked over and sat in the chair next to me. We turned to face each other and our knees touched. She beamed as she took my hand. I considered telling her about my kids, my husband. But as I looked in her eyes I saw that she already knew. I thought I would tell her how much I miss her and need her. But she knew that too. So we just passed the time smiling and looking. I don’t even know if we talked, but we absolutely laughed.

When our hour was over, she stood up to go. “Wait!” I cried, and I fumbled through my bag for my phone. We put our heads close together and took about a hundred laughing selfies, each one better than the last. (The lighting in that room was creamy and ideal.)

And then I was lying in my bed, aware if not awake. The air from the fan moved across my closed eyelids, and through my haze swam the glowing prospect of what was waiting on my camera roll—a cache of brand new photos of her, of us. I could show them to my family. I could run down my battery with staring at them.

Outside, a train roared by. The ice maker clattered in the kitchen. I rolled over. And then I opened my eyes.