When I was little, I had awful night terrors. Not about ghosts or monsters, but everyday things, and somehow that was worse. A piece of rope suspended from the ceiling, advancing slowly toward me. A glass about to fall from a table. A light about to be turned on. Meaningless things taking on significance. I was a rubber band stretching to breaking point.

I woke up from these dream hallucinating that the ceiling was coming down on me, crushing me; and every night, without fail, my mother would rush in to comfort me. I groped for the belt of her robe, tied tightly around her middle, dividing her into halves. Clutching at her with drowning hands, I'd squeeze the familiar shape of her until I knew for certain I was awake, that the hands on my back were really hers. We'd sit there, my sweat seeping into her pajamas while she stroked my damp hair. She'd sing a special song to me, one she never sang any other time. It didn't have words, but the tune was comforting, sweet and melancholy. A kind of backwater lullaby her parents probably sang to her when she was little. She'd ask me what the dreams were about and if I could remember I'd tell her. We'd try to figure out what they meant. It was a kind of game. She radiated warmth.

We didn't talk about my night terrors in real life. They only existed in the dark. When I came home from school, she'd be waiting for me with a snack, and we'd talk about other things. The days were shorter back then. Our lives intersected briefly in the daylight; she slept late, and I went to bed early. I never thanked her, even though I meant to. I wasn't sure what to thank her for.

She died when I was in college. An aneurysm. My father heard her hit the kitchen floor, and by the time he got there she was gone. It was very quick, which was a small comfort as we prepared for her burial.

The house was full of food smells and perfume that night. The neighbors had been there, all of them judging by the state of the refrigerator. My father and I sat on the back porch together in the thinner air. He was smoking a cigar, a habit my mother had always hated. The sun was going down and with an awful knife-twist I remembered those late nights, those dreams. The piece of rope, the stove burner trying to light, the bottle of soda fizzing.

"Remember when I was a kid, those night terrors I used to have?"

He took the cigar out of his mouth and frowned.

"Hmm?"

"Yeah, those ones when I was little. Remember I'd wake up screaming? I always wanted to thank Mom for helping. I meant to thank her." I paused and rubbed my throat, where the collar of my shirt was tightest. "I wanted to ask what that song was from." Her absence was as real as her presence had been.

He was looking at me with his eyebrows meeting in the middle.

"What song?"

"This song she used to hum. I wish I'd asked about it." My eyes were stinging. "That sucks. I wish I'd remembered."

"You're talking about when you were little."

"You remember my screaming?"

"Yeah, but I don't know about the other stuff."

"What?"

"Horwitz said not to wake you up when you had them. I was supposed to let you wake up yourself. You'd scream and scream but you'd always go back to sleep after a little while."

"Yeah, because Mom was there."

He settled back in his chair.

"You were dreaming still."

"About what?"

He stubbed the cigar out.

"Your mom worked nights. You don't remember, I guess. At the diner."

"But she came in, I remember."

"Nope." He shook his head. "It was just you and me."

"No, she sang that song."

He shook his head again.

"She always had her robe on."

"She didn't have a robe. You were still dreaming."

"No." I said. "I remember it."

"It was just you and me, bud. She worked nights for years." He up and stretched. "Get some sleep." He patted my shoulder on the way inside.

I sat in the chair, holding my own hands, and I watched the sun go down. Upstairs, my father got into bed, and I heard from the open window the sound of his snoring.

I sat in the chair, hands in my lap. I hummed into the dark until the sun came up. It was time to go bury my mother.