Maybe because it is Easter Week, and a time for reflection upon life, death, goodness, gifts, friends, and pierogi. Maybe it is only floating bits of time that get in each others’ way and crash together in coincidence.
Last night in a telephone conversation my sister cried, relating to me a dream she had about the last hours we spent with my mother. And it was real, untainted by the fantasies that dreams can add as softening details. We switch roles once more, and I am the stronger one to assuage the guilt I know she feels at leaving fifteen minutes early that afternoon. It is as troubling, I realize, as mine at being there.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology