Her voice is scratchy, a forceful whisper as she says, “Mama, I don’t want you to go on a trip again. Ok? With Finley? Don’t go to the airport again. Stay here with me and Briar and Daddy and Finley. Always, ok?” Her dark hair tickles my skin, thick ringlets, lash-teasing bangs and sticky flyaways all conspire to engulf my face. Her cheeks are cool and her plump lips twist to and fro against my jaw as her hands clutch my neck and her body presses into mine. There is no impetus, no declaration of an approaching trip, no reaching for keys or packing of bags. These requests come unbidden and with them memories of my own childhood, “Mom, promise me you won’t die.…