The Visit / Debra

She is back. Standing before me clear as day, real as real can be. I can see her, touch her, hear her. I expect to awaken from the dream; it can't be real. But it feels real. It seems real. It is real.
"You look beautiful," I say, as I stare in awe of her appearance. Young, vibrant, smiling. Her movements are graceful. She seems at ease, content, happy.
"I've always been here," she replies, and I realize she hadn't actually said it. She hadn't spoken the words; rather I'd heard her speak inside my head. The communications continue, coming rapidly and without pause between thoughts. I love you, Debbie. I'm grateful for all you did for me, how you took care of me all those months. No one has ever cared about me as much as you, or loved me as much. Having you as a daughter was a blessing, and continues to be as your daily loving thoughts of me warm my heart each day. Your presence in my life, both there and now here, warms me. Comforts me. The love that radiates from you is always with me, and it is appreciated. And returned as profoundly rich and intense as love can be.
I wipe away tears and speak. "I'm sorry, Mom," I say. "I'm sorry..."
This time she replies with spoken words. "You have nothing to be sorry for; no more than I."
For a moment we stand silently. Looking at each other. Smiling. There is an energy - a glorious feeling of love and peace and tranquility. Contentment, happiness, joy. Its vibration moves between us, envelops us, surrounds us. I can feel it filling me up; filling me with a profound sense of wellness, as if nothing at all has ever gone wrong in the world and never will again.
"I'll visit again," she says, as she reaches for my hand. We embrace and the sensations overwhelm me. I can feel the warmth of her body. I can smell her perfume. I feel like I did as a child, comforted and safe and secure in my mother's embrace. I'll never outgrow this, I think. I'll never outgrow nor take for granted the love of this woman, my mother.
"I miss you, Mom," I say, as we separate and she begins to move away. Five years I waited. Five years I prayed to see my mother's face. "I love you, Mom," I say. "I love you so much."
She is gone.