When that’s done, I read through my chemistry notes, then try to memorize names and dates of people I couldn’t care less about for my Modern American History class. When my head feels heavy and my vision swims, I burrow into my covers and pull them over my head to blot out the world. Then I will my mind into sleep.

The dream comes as it always does. And as always, I know it to be a dream. Suddenly, I’m standing next to my mother on a sidewalk in the fading early-evening light. Bright silver-and-stone buildings with sparkling glass reach into the cloudless sky behind us. A wide screen congratulates the neighborhood on winning a beautification award.

Her long yellow coat is buttoned up to the top. The blue scarf I gave her for Christmas is wrapped tight around her neck as she studies the street with narrowed eyes. Then she reaches into her matching shoulder bag for her design tablet and begins to draw. Her stylus runs across the tablet, but when I step closer, there is nothing on the screen.

“Look harder,” she says in the clipped tone that convinced me she’d never think I was talented enough to be a real artist. Before I can tell her I can’t see what isn’t there, tires begin to screech.

She doesn’t run. No matter how loud I shout, she never runs.

The car swerves onto the curb. It has no color—almost no shape as it crashes into my mother. She flies backward, and my eyes snap open before her head cracks against the ground.

My temples pound as I glance at the clock. The glowing red numbers tell me I have slept four hours. There are three to go before school starts. Knowing there’s no point in trying to go back to sleep, I throw off the covers and climb out of bed. I take a shower and let the water wash the grain out of my eyes and swirl the memory of the dream down the drain. Once I’m dressed, I take my tablet to Mom’s studio to work.

On the way I open my father’s door. In the dark, I slowly cross to the nightstand and check the alarm. Dad remembered to set it before he passed out. Part of me wonders how much he had to drink. A lot, I’d guess, considering he caught sight of Mom’s unfinished picture.

An incomplete picture.

An incomplete life.

But the painting isn’t just about my mother. It’s about how my father and I are now living. We’re stuck in this place. Neither of us can move on until the empty spaces she left are filled. For months I’ve tried to add to Mom’s work without a sense of what direction she was taking. But after finding the inspiration for at least two, maybe three, of her paintings yesterday, I feel like I might eventually be able to fill the canvas the way she intended.

I pull up a picture of the bridge, but no matter how much I zoom in or spin sections and try to see what my mother saw, I can’t figure out how this final piece fits into the puzzle. After several attempts, I do what my art teacher told us to do when we are stuck. I stop trying to force the issue and begin to draw something else.