My mom visits me in the time of the virus bearing soft-serve, strawberry-laced ice cream cones and a healthy glow. Previously she always appeared to me pale and in that ever-present hospital gown, leaning heavily on her walker.

Or about to fall down a long flight of stairs.

Me never managing to rescue. The sickness she died from, a fixture in the scene.

Now when my dreams should swirl in universal panic, she appears, plump rather than skeletal,

Strong enough to be my mom again and not my child. 

One night she brings with her our beloved poodle, gone the year after she left.

We three walk to our former neighbor’s house, just to say hello. 

In another dream, my mom brings me a small bundle of the love letters written by my long-estranged father to her,

Tied up in a violet ribbon.  Such a kind reminder.

I had hunted down his apartments after his death, addresses found on the mailed envelopes,

The only concrete connection I had to him, sitting on front stoops that were once his. 

She wears brightly colored silk blouses and smiles when she visits.  Genuine smiles, not just trying to hide the deep ache. 

Dancing under the moon last night in front of me--not like her earthly self at all, where she never wanted to call attention

To herself.  She brings life to me in the time of the virus, a caress for the isolation, grace for once shattered sleep.

The world’s death finally returned my mom to me, alive.