Someday my daughter will be standing in my place, and I will rest where my mother now sits.
Will I remember then how it felt to be both mother and daughter? Will I ask the same question one too many times?
I walk over and sit down between my mother and her granddaughter.
"Where is Rick?" my mother asks, resting her hand on the table next to mine. The space between us is smaller than when I was a teenager, barely visible at all.
And in that instant I know she remembers. She may repeat herself a little too much. But she remembers.
"He'll be here," I answer with a smile.
My mother smiles back, one of those grins where the dimple takes over the shape of her face, resembling my daughter.
Then she lets her shoulders relax, picks up the dice.