"I feel sorry," she says matter-of-factly, "for people who don't know how to dream."
It's a Sunday evening and we're sitting together (we're always together) in my backyard looking at the stars. It's winter, but one of those really hot days in winter, so it's nice out but dark early. And I'm thinking who doesn't know how to dream? You just lie down, close your eyes, and then you're just dreaming.
"No," she says. "I mean really dream."
And I have no idea what she's talking about, but before I know it she's dragging me away by the arm. It's dark and I'm late for dinner but she doesn't stop. Oh, my mother will be so angry with me.
She drops my arm and I feel worried. She's telling me I always worry too much, that everything is ?ne, that nothing bad ever happens in real life.
I don't want to go but she seems so excited, and after everything she's done for me it's the least I can do to follow her.
She opens the gate and slips inside, beckons me to follow. The stars are brighter here than anywhere else. She's running now and I'm running behind her. Of course I'm faster than her but I run slowly now because I don't want to hurt her feelings.
She stops in front of the cliff overlooking the sea. She stands dangerously close to the edge and turns around to look at me. I walk slowly up to her, worried, scared, but I don't look away. I reach her ?nally and she takes my hand.
She closes her eyes. We're not allowed here at night, I want to tell her, but my lips won't move. All I can think of is how much she looks like a bird, her arms waving slightly, her legs balancing on her toes, her beautifully bald head thrown back. It wouldn't surprise me if she just took off ?ying. I stand awkwardly by her side, hoping she doesn't fall, but if she does I'll catch her.
My mother says she's not herself anymore, but I don't get it. She seems ?ne to me. My mother says she's sick, she's in pain, she's weak, leave her alone, but she seems happier now than ever before. And if she is all those things, I could make it better like she made me better.
She doesn't fall (thank god), and she ?nally opens her eyes. She wiggles her bare toes in the cold, damp grass and smiles. It's dark but I can always see her smile.
She tells me to close my eyes so I do. She's crazy, I think. Crazy, crazy, crazy. But suddenly she's not crazy. Suddenly I'm dreaming--really dreaming. Suddenly I'm me but not me; I'm better. I feel the grass against my toes, the cool night breeze against my hair, my sweaty palm against hers. I can hear every heartbeat of every firefly in the sky. And how can it be just me? Of course she's with me. We’re older, better, happier. I open my eyes and look at her and smile, and she smiles back, and I think again how there can't be anything wrong with her. She's got tears in her eyes, happy tears of course. Her nose scrunches up like it does and I want to hug her and tell her everything is okay. And in this moment I have no worries. She's with me, she'll always be with me, no matter what my mother says.

My eyes snap open and I think for a minute, maybe--but no. No, she's still there, cold, unmoving. I take her hand but she doesn't stir. She's gone, they say. Gone. It was only a matter of days. It's a wonder she's still alive, they say, but she won't be for long. I don't believe it. She can't be gone. I'm the only one who thinks so, but I'm the only one who was there. I'm the only one she showed. I'm the only one who knows; she's only dreaming.