I dreamed of my mother– not her living, breathing, walking self, only accidental snapshots my father found on an old camera. In the pictures she’s going down the staircase and back up again. My grief for her upon seeing them has weight and presence. I find a flower arrangement she’d made wilting in a corner with one large reaching orchid leaf, a bunch of red holly berries, and two protuberances that resemble cucumbers. I announce it to the others in the house as her final flower arrangement and tell them to say goodbye as I carry it to the trash.