A few nights ago,
I was in my garage,
hundreds of miles from here.
I was getting a Pepsi.
and my dad told me
to turn around and look.

And she was there,
in my garage.

She smiled at me,
and I started crying
faceless emotions,
bewilderment -
or maybe I knew
it was just a dream,

so I cried
because I missed her.

She didn't look the same.
She was smaller,
and shades of pink and gray,
like a Kim Anderson photograph -
how she had looked
the last time I ever saw her.

But she was beautiful
and she was there.

She wrapped a frail arm
around my shoulders,
and asked how choir was.
I rolled my eyes
as I told her about the strange music
and all the pretension.

And we laughed together,
like we should have.

We talked like adults -
a way we'd never talked before -
because I was a child
and she was authority…
but more like a mother
than a teacher.

Dad had predicted long ago
that I would love her.

"Never stop singing," she said.
I nodded my tearful promise.
I wanted to ask what death was like,
but I didn't get the chance.
Someday I'll go home,
and she'll be there,

our scattered souls meeting
in ashes and dust.