photo by a nurse (I'm guessing)
'Dad, Mom and me (I'm five days old)'
The front tires hit a bump, we caught air and landed hard.
Cheering from the backseat.
But I put a hand on my belly. "Jim, be careful of Leanne." I just said your name, just like that. Like I knew I was carrying you.
And a few months later, when the weather turned cold, the air crisp, you arrived--our baby daughter Leanne.
When Mom told me this story I thought she was magical--like she'd conjured me.
photo by Dad
Mom (baby soft post-cancer hair) and me (a perm) (I'm in my early 20s in this picture)
Mom knit the sweater I'm wearing.
Healing my life after my mom's death has been a long, slow process. This is a short story about something that did help.
A year after her death, I had a dream. Mom and I were doing the dishes. She washed and I dried. She scooped her hand into the sink, blew and covered me with bubbles.
"Hey." I laughed.
"That's better." She reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded note. "Read this when it's time for you to wake up."
photo by ldyck