I found the book, one day, just where she had left it — in her lovely white wicker chair, next to her bed with the yellow and white flowered quilt. “Waiting For Autumn”. It was, most likely, the last book my mom held, the last book she tried to read, her place still marked. She would have run her fingers over the embossed decorative cover, contemplating the dragonfly printed there. I pictured her squinting, eyes watering, trying to make out the blurred words. I wonder if she liked what she read? I wonder if it made her dream? She had picked up this book, from my sofa by the window, on one of her visits and started reading it. I gave it to her to take home. So when I came across it a few years ago, while we were packing up her bedroom, I needed to have it back. It was, most likely, the last book my mom tried to read, the last book she held.