“Ronnie, is it really you?”
“Yes, Mom, it’s me.”
I took her soft hand, skin smoothly worn but still intact through decades of household toil.
We were on her couch in the living room. The sun filtered warmly through the thin curtains.
We sat silently together for a period of no-time.
She’s gone now, peacefully, smiling to the end, according to my sister. Diane’s gone now, too.
I wonder, still, some thirty years later, if Mom believed me.