"I'm worried about my daughter"

Mom was hallucinating. I said: "she's okay. She's fine." She nodded, her eyes wide, trusting me so, and replied "okay." A few seconds later she was "back" and I was me again.

If I tried to fully imagine what her body looked like as it burned to ash inside the creamator, I would go completely mad. There are places, images, realities where I am not yet ready to go, but for some reason keep feeling like I must. I see myself climbing up a steep mountain in La Paz, Bolivia and letting fly some of her ashes. I see myself watching them as they float away, free.

I think my mother was freest those months when it was just the two of us on the Vineyard. Her laugh was so easy then, and she went to sleep early because her body finally had a chance to completely relax. Every muscle, every pore. Her breaths were deep when she took a nap, and she looked like an angel. When she woke I would make her soup and a small smorgasboard of cheese, crackers, hummus, lox and a beer. That's what passed for lunch in my house, unless Mom had cooked and there were leftovers, or Dad had picked up KFC on the way home from tennis on the weekend. Then, when they moved to the Vineyard full-time tennis was every day and the chances of fried chicken even greater.

But I didn't so much care for other people's friend chicken. I liked Mom's. I flatter myself that I make a good variety of chicken dishes to rival Mom's. They're different, of course, but very good.

I'm tired. Every pore. ;) It feels good. That song of M's always knocks me out. Makes me sad, makes me remember, makes me write and then makes me sleep.

Good night, Mommy. Touch me if you can. My heart needs a recharge.