Umma suddenly got up from the bench and walked slowly up the hill. I followed her. At the top of it, she sat down on the grass. It was an early fall evening at Olympic Park. The fragrance of drying autumn leaves came right up to my nose. I threw off my bag and used my mother’s emaciated thigh as a pillow. I felt like a nine-year-old again.

—Umma, why are you sitting on the bare grass? You used to tell me that sitting on the grass can cause viral hemorrhagic fever.

—When did I ever say such a thing?

—When I was ten. When you were getting your second online university degree. I remember you were wearing your graduation cap saying it. That if my bare skin touched the grass, I’d catch a disease where holes would appear all over my skin and I’d bleed from them. That it was from the germs in rat droppings.

—You’re making this up. I would never say something so disgusting.

—You really said it. See, you can’t remember any of this stuff. I remember everything. You gave me a lifelong phobia of grass because of it. To this day, I stick to the pavement and always avoid the grass.

—Really? How silly of me. The things I used to say to a child.

The sun began to set. Neither of us said anything for a moment as we watched it go down. Then, without taking her eyes off the sun, my mother spoke:

—Things are beautiful when they fade out.

—You think so?

—Son. Do you think I’m a very daring person?

—Why are you asking that all of a sudden?

—You know I’ve lived like a man for so long. I thought I feared nothing and didn’t know anything about regret. But then I had you and realized that wasn’t true. When you were a baby, holding you felt like clutching a fat purse, I felt so rich and satisfied. And it made me fearful. That you might get hurt, or break, or disappear.

—Jesus.