From my plush blanket cocoon, I notice our bedroom has too many mirrors. The mirror on L.’s dresser reflects the one on mine, which reflects three small, square, black-and-white-framed wall mirrors.
Maybe if I have enough mirrors, I can bridge the distance between reality without her
all the way back to when grandma was still living.
No. I know that’s not right. That death’s finality is a matter of time and not distance.
Loss is not a trick of refracting light.
I also know time goes on forever in both directions. Her kindness (and our lives together) will always be recorded there, woven into the fabric of existence.
I am sure now.
We’re as close as we’ve ever been.
It is Spring.
I’m on her sofa as she prepares cocoa in her blossom-printed kitchen.
I drift to sleep, wrapped in fleece, succumbing to the soft folds of peace and nostalgia.
