Memory 1
Mom rose in the middle of the night. She quietly moved through our little house. The master bedroom, the living room, the kitchen. She didn’t turn on lights. They might wake me or my sister.
It was a cloudless and the moon was full. My memory is imperfect, but I do remember this.
Mom opened the refrigerator, yellow light pooling at her feet on the tile. She took out the juice, poured a glass, stood by the sink in the dark, drinking. Mom was tall, slender, blonde, sometimes sad, her eyes far away.
