A bakery where bread was carried out before sunrise.

Boys kicking a soccer ball between buildings until somebody’s mother shouted from a window.

Most of her stories stopped before the day she left.

There were subjects she simply folded away.

I had learned not to unfold them for her.

I picked her up shortly before six.

She came outside wearing a navy dress covered in tiny white flowers.

I recognized it immediately.

“You still have that?”

She looked down.

“What?”

“The dress.”

“Of course.”

“Mom, you’ve owned that since I was a child.”