a moment's memory

I sat with her in the front room, the light of midday warming our backs. We were facing the chandelier from Italy and the painting from Switzerland. The daylight played tag as it pranced across the wall, bounded off the crystal and leaped onto the mirror above the fireplace where I could see our two reflections.

Before long, she asked if we could re-arrange the furniture and sit facing the window to look at the mountain. I moved the two green velvet chairs right up next to each other. Pulling back the sheer curtains, I revealed the mountain in all her majesty. It's quite bright. Would you like me to get your glasses? I turned toward the kitchen. She sat there as if she hadn't heard me say it; as if I wasn't even in the room. It was as though she had been transported to some other world where time and age don't exist. Where colors are vivid again and the air smells of Evergreens. A place where memories are made in an instant and kept for eternity. Where the first warm breeze of summer floats across porcelain skin and sunlight touches perfect pink lips. He is there with her.

I suppose it is a bit bright, dear. I pass through the hallway with the family photos, all matted and framed with Grandpa's artistic eye. Dark glasses in hand, I approach the entryway. I stop to make a memory of her. Of the way the light hits her bright white hair and softly falls on her pale pink lips. Of the way she sits so straight in her chair, legs to one side. Of the way she longingly looks up at the mountain, as though she sees him in it. Come. Sit here, dear. Isn't it beautiful? I take her hand in mine; we sit together.