Inside was a picture of us three as boys, faces sticky with ice cream, arms thrown around each other. The clasp clicked shut softly, like a heartbeat. I placed it back in her box, then unfolded one of the quilts and pulled it around my shoulders.
The fabric was worn, but it radiated something alive—her presence, her patience, her endless, ordinary magic. Some people leave behind inheritances and property; my mother left warmth stitched into cloth, lessons folded into seams, love hidden in tiny pockets for us to find when we needed her most. And that night, as I drifted to sleep beneath her blanket, I could almost feel her hand on mine, steady and sure, whispering without words: I’m still here.
