♡ TRIGGER WARNING ♡

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The night my mother died, she came to me in my dream. She wandered round my room, tracing the edges of my desk and smiling at the photographs pinned to the wall. She stroked back a strand of hair which had fallen onto my face, and then picked up the battered book on my nightstand.

She perched on the edge of my bed, and I sat up, confused. She smiled and spoke, "Melody, I have a question for you." I nodded, rubbing the sleep out my eyes.

"How heavy do you think this book is?" She stretched her arm like a plank and her blue eyes met mine.

"I don't know," I replied, sighing. "A couple of pounds?"

She smiled again, "the absolute weight does not seem to matter. If I were to hold this book for a few minutes, it would seem quite light. A few hours and I would probably begin to ache. A few days, however, and I would likely cramp up and be unlikely to do anything else until I dropped the book."

I shook my head, confused, "what are you trying to tell me, mother?"

She got up and placed the book back on the nightstand. She whispered then, "the book, my dear, is a metaphor. You'll figure it out when you need to know it."

And with a final kiss on the forehead she was gone, and none other but the next day did I figure out what she meant, when I found her lifeless in her bed, and a sudden heaviness seeming to overcome me.