Helen and I paused for a moment, and then my mother turned her head and saw us. “Harry!” she said, “and Helen!” as though she were surprised, though no meeting had ever been planned in more detail. And then she smiled, a smile I knew well, a smile that was her particular smile for me, and it was as though the emotion that had been just behind her face while she watched my father checking in came all at once to its surface. We were in a hotel, and it was ten o’clock at night, and so I just walked over to give my mother a kiss on the cheek, but there has never been any meeting in which there was more urgency or delight than there was for me when I crossed the infinite space, up the three stairs, past the concierge, across the front of the elevator, to where my mother sat on her chair, with her square travel bag by her feet. I would like to be able to live in that moment forever. It passed in a few seconds; there was some question about getting the luggage up to the room; my mother asked Helen about her flight; I remembered how angry I was at my mother; she was tired; that particular August day settled in with all its irritations. But for a moment, when I saw my mother, reality itself had stood at bay.

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