Soggy bits of postcards were in her fur and strew about my carpet. Colored pieces and beloved pieces of my mom's delicate handwriting. Only in blue because she swore she wrote neater in blue. Her cursive-print hybrid, wet with saliva and torn to chunks. "Barbara," I whispered, "What did you do?" I dropped to my knees and she trotted over and began licking my hand. I picked up a jagged piece with smeared ink. It read "is." I put it to my face and sobbed. "Is what, Mom?" Why hadn't I read these while I had the chance? I looked at the sea of letters and phrases. The tin sat tipped like my heart, with all its contents spilled out and torn up. Except for one.

One lonely postcard that was stuck to the bottom of the time. I used my nail to pry it out. The first postcard mom had sent.

"Dear Nora, Brilliant Cook and Wonderful Daughter,

We've arrived! I can't believe this is actually happening! I've dreamed of going on a river cruse even longer than you've dreamed of culinary school, if you can believe it! I'll keep you posted on all our excitement (there might not be much- we're the youngest ones here by a couple decades. Ha!)

xoxo, Mom

Mom! My mom! I could hear her voice, I could see her hunched over, writing. My heart tipped back upright, but was still empty. It was an unceremonious read after so many years, but my desperation necessitated it. I crawled under the bed where there was a large chunk of a postcard. Across the room there was another. Maybe I could piece more of these together.

It took a while, but I was able to put a few complete sentences together.

From Turkey: "I know you... food... decent. BLAh says yours is better... MISS YOU!!

From Italy: ... gondola ride! Someone picked Tim's pocke-"

From France: "Precious Daughter of Mine... and the wine! You would die over it!"

Barbara lay her chin on my leg while I read and cried and taped and laughed. The fragments filled my heart. They made me hungry for more of my mother. After closing myself off from her memory for so long, I was desperate for anything I could get of hers. Anything small thing. Her round spectacles that were all wrong for her face shape. Her favorite wine class that said, "Sassy and Classy" with permanent lipstick marks on the rim. Her way too saucy lasagna. Anything.

I slept with my tin (lid on tight, so Barbara wouldn't be tempted to use them for a midnight snack) and woke at 6:17 with a clear purpose. Dilly rolls. With Barbara at my feet and my tin of postcards at the counter beside, I was happily surrounded. My apartment was full of dillish baked bread in no time. I shot Abby a quick text. She was surprised at my request, but sent thumbs up and hearts, so she seemed to understand. While I waited for her to pick me up I had time to shower, curl my hair, and put on make-up. I jumped up and down and wiggled my arms and legs like I was trying to fling my nerves to the ground.

Thankfully, I didn't have to wait long for Abby. "As requested," she smiled. I took Mom's robe from her and stuffed my face in it. If I concentrated really hard and used my imagination, I could smell the rosewater mom spritzed on her face every day. "Thank you," I said into the worn fabric. To mom and to Abby.

"You didn't ask for this, but I brought it anyway." She held out Mom's favorite wine glass. "You're way more "Sassy and Classy" than I am. You should have it."

"That's not true," I managed to choke out. "But I'd love to have it." I threw my arms around Abby. "Thank you so much."

"I don't know what brought all this on, but I'm so happy you're... coming to terms with things?"

It seemed to early to say I was coming to terms with my mom's death. I still felt like I could melt down again at any given moment, btu I felt good. Instead of memories pulling me to my knees, they were pulling my head up toward the heavens. Toward my mom. "Ohmygosh, let's go before I totally lose it," I commanded. I still had my limits after all.

Abby grinned. "Let's go."