The White Room
I was connecting the dots, comfortably seated, with the paper on my lap, when my mother came into my room.
‘Dinner is ready, dear.’
And then she left, and I remembered that she is dead. Mama, you are dead for thirty years.
I was connecting the dots on the paper, drawing lines. They ran smoothly from one dot to another, and I was old, I was very old. I have connected so many dots.