I write about the last time I saw my mother before she rapidly declined in health.

About two feet from the bottom of my glass door, a little hand’s outline marred the surface…

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I watched the small lizard stalk his prey in the space between the window pane and the screen on my kitchen window. He made a quick meal of the insect. Not for the first time, I wondered how he got into that small space. The screen has no holes and seems to be secure. For that matter, how do the insects find their way in?

Startled awake in my bed, it took me a moment to differentiate reality from dream. A feeling of terror washed over my body.

I was about five years old the first time I lost my mother. We had made the much anticipated monthly or bimonthly trip into town. The twenty-five mile excursion required some planning. Errands were postponed until enough were compiled to make the jaunt worthwhile. Lists were made. The trip itself was an event.