By Kristin Barickman

I dreamt of her two weeks after her death. She took the seat across from me and expressed irritation over the way our table wobbled. I folded a stack of cardboard-brown napkins into a thick square and wedged it under the table’s leg to keep it still. Then I broke the news.

She was surprised to learn she was dead. She didn’t yell at me or cry. But predictably, she couldn’t accept my diagnosis without a splash of skepticism. She asked how she could possibly be sitting there, at that little café table with me, if she were dead.

I studied the familiar lines of her face, that specific arrangement of features I had dedicated to memory before any other; shapes I knew were mirrored back at her as she looked at me. 

“Mom,” I said. “This part of you stayed because this part of you is me.”

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Kristin Barickman is a recovering corporate attorney turned writer. She lives in central Illinois with her husband and three young children.