#1Paragraph story... Dec 12

You notice that you are drifting over your body. You can see that they have pulled you from the car. You can see that one paramedic, the woman, is putting the equipment away; the other is opening the black bag. The Firemen have sprayed some kind of foam over your Mother’s car. You turn you gaze to where your body would be as you float among the smoke and ash, you see nothing. You are aware that you are slipping between molecules; phantom tingles, almost tickling you. You feel your body from the cool air across your legs, to the wind caressing your cheek, and lightly moving your hair. You reach up with your invisible hand to brush the strands that always fall on your forehead, but no reprieve is granted. You think about looking to the sky, and then you are. You didn't turn yourself, you just saw. The rain coming at you, pushing through you- you feel the droplets push through somehow. You think of your Mother now and you are now with her. She is asleep, so late- how late? Early morning. She has been asleep for hours. You float over her. You want to hold her one last time, and move closer, but you cannot feel her. You see her eyes moving- she’s dreaming. You want to know if she is dreaming a nice dream and then you are there. You know you are there, in her dream. She is her, but not her. You can sense that she is your mother, but she is young. She is maybe seven or eight, playing in a yard you recognize from photo albums. She is looking towards the street where your car is- her car. But instead of floating unnoticed she can see you. She calls to you, you tiny mother asks if you are alight. You tell her you are; That you have move on. That you will miss her. She cries now. Her young self may not have known you, but her old self knows. You move to her and you embrace. She holds you in her dream; your last hug from your mother. You tell her you love her and she wakes. You watch from above her bed as she reaches for the lamp, almost flailing, she turns it on and it falls to the floor. The phone rings- she begins to weep. Deep, broken gasps as the emptiness envelopes her. She knows she will never see you again. You are pulled away, you can’t stop now; rising to the sky. You stretch thinner, and thinner still. You are the clouds, and the wind. You are the stars, and the moon. You are all things. You mother will not remember your dream good-bye until she is very old. Moments before she, too, becomes all things, she will recall the yard, and the fence, and the boy whom she outlived.

James C.