Memories wander in and out these days. Her mother’s face—how long since she saw her last? “Hi Mom.” “Hi Dear.”
The hand that’s holding hers isn’t right; not her mother’s. A distant voice asks, “What does she mean?”
Her husband now—how long since he held her last? But the fingers aren’t wearing a ring. It’s not him. Of course. They wouldn’t have met till afterwards.
“It’s time.” “Time for what Mom?”
Fingers clench on her wrist. The voice says “Not yet,” but it’s time to leave. Looking down from the sky she sees her son start to cry.