at whatever age we lose them, we yearn for a mother's love for the rest of our lives

sometimes it feels like it is all a dream

I am dropping off two friends. They have somewhere to be, in this dream — somewhere just beyond this painterly, gated courtyard. So I wait here, in its familiarity. Slate pavers have tufts of neon moss and grassy sprouts, puzzling them into a welcoming and peaceful expanse. A collection of vintage tables are stacked in a stylish assortment with gifty items for sale. It is in fact a shop of my dreams imagination. Folks I don’t recognize, are enjoying the tree shaded space with lemonades and coffees.

Photo by Dorrell Tibbs on Unsplash

Two women are seated on one of the black enameled benches, closely huddle side by side. There curls are entangled as they nuzzle in shoulder to shoulder. From here it sounds like they were running lines for a performance of some kind. I recognize their voices.