Another shows a woman wearing a pale green chiffon dress that falls just below her knees . In the third an old man slumps in a dark room , sunk into a chair in front of a flickering TV screen . Children and pets , husbands and wives , graduations and wedding and funerals . Recipes for pot roast , and chicken and green bean casserole . How to turn on the stove . The words to songs . My name and my face and the knowledge that I ’ m my mother ’ s daughter .
The man stands by the door , leaning on the mop . Stitched on his shirt pocket are the words “ Lost and Found .”
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I buy the largest container of bubble soap I can find , a big 16-ounce bottle . I practice in the parking lot , leaning up against my car . Small bubbles hurry away in streams . Larger bubbles remain on the wand until my breath releases them . Then wind carries them away , up over the cars and lamp posts and buildings .
Inside I bring my lips to the wand and whisper : You are wearing a red cashmere sweater given to you by a man you loved but wouldn ’ t marry . The son you ask for every day died ten years ago from cancer . That woman who visits you every day is your daughter . The bubbles leave me and flurry through the doorways .
I step inside my mother ’ s room , dip the wand deep into the bottle . “ I am your daughter ” I whisper to the wand , birthing a clutch of bubbles with my words . My mother follows the bubbles with her eyes , and raises a finger to touch one . When it pops she startles , then lowers her hand to her lap . I blow more bubbles , and pop one myself . She smiles . I rub the bubble soap onto her fingers , over each scoop of nail , swell of knuckle , along every crease of her palms . Again I dip the ring and lift it to my lips . This time I speak only my name . Tiny bubbles flow from the wand . When my mother reaches out her finger one bubble clings to her , and she leans down to peer inside it .
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