I think nothing of waking at 3am when my mother is still mine, when there are so many things to be said, while there is time. At daybreak, I hear that she passed on in the night. At one time, I believed she had taken all our shared tomorrows with her. We each are the call that will not come now. One month after, tears still take the shape of folded frailty. In the turn and turn of autumn, I read a happy sigh of her old letters found within a book. She is not far – only in the next room, tucked gently within the light of dreams, finding sleep between remembrance and beginning.