Just now, I dreamed of Mom again.
In the dream, I seemed to be in that room we used as a classroom, but the dining table was the one I have now.
I was sitting in a chair on one side of the table. Mom stood beside it, leaning gently against the edge. She was wearing that white blouse with black dots. I held her left hand between both of mine.
Mom was so happy to see me. She smiled warmly as she talked to me.
She said, “Your Third Aunt and Ninth Aunt both said I wasn’t supposed to leave yet. But after that photograph was taken, I felt there was nothing left for me to regret. So I left.”
As Mom spoke, my Third Aunt, Ninth Aunt, and several other people were in the room next door.
And then, suddenly, I understood.
Mom was talking about her own passing.
At that very moment, something else struck me—
It was Mom.
It was really Mom, standing there, talking to me.
“Mom! Mom!” I cried out.
Mom’s figure began to fade. But I clutched her hand tightly, afraid that if I loosened my grip even for a moment, her hand would disappear, too.
I kept calling out to her, again and again:
“Mom… Mom…”
And as I called her name, I woke up.
Only then did I realize that my left hand was tightly clasping my right.
And in my palm, I could still feel the warmth of Mom’s hand.
I went to the seaside with my classmates to bring hyacinths to our mothers. Now it is time for me to write that story, too.
Mom is waiting to read it.
