Mom has slipped further away. Her breathing is more apnea than oxygen, and we have spent the evening upstairs, the three of us talking, giving her space. Following after Tracy, I pick up a photo album to flip through, to select pictures for the memorial/reception. The first two photos in this album are Dad, sanding a white crib in a backyard that looks familiar. The clothes scream the 70s, and my eyes drift down the page to the third photo, a photo of my mother.
A photo of my mother, very pregnant. Very pregnant with me.