Mornings I’d rise, hearing their laughter. Stagger in, teen-aged, pajama'd and sleepy. These fine women sat at the table. My mother’s friends, a cackling coven. Greeted and teased until I retreated to breakfast. My mother's best friend patting my arm. Red hair. Tall boobs. Swathed in smoke, smiles, and julips. The morning brunch.

Today, the phone rang. Her lungs had filled up. My mother's eyes, too. Now, the memory gets broken between smiling and smoke.

My wish, I will wake there, from some crazy slumber and discover them laughing, as I go to meet them. Glasses will clink, toasting my resurrection.