It made me sad to see her pictures, my sister says, green eyes gleaming in the moonlight. We're driving and I know what she means.
Because somewhere out there in the night there is a woman who seems not to have any photographs at all. But there are, and we have seen them.
In my peripheral vision, from the window of the car, I see her. She's skipping rope or holding a baby doll, smile fixed like a moment captured in ice, dark hair framing her tiny European features. She looks like she is happy.
A moment later she is in flared blue jeans and that same smile, only now it is sunless and there are other people there too. Then more, but she is disappearing in the rain and when I roll down my window to call out her name, she is gone.
This is where I came from, this frightened dilution of self.
She was pretty, my sister says and I realize suddenly how tired I am. I want to cradle this invisible creature, this woman who disappeared as if by magic while we were looking the other way.