Photo Source: Unsplash Rojo. My mother died closer to a decade ago than not, and I cannot for the life of me pinpoint where the in-between time went. An odd marker of death only arises when I speak with my sister, Jennifer, about Mom’s passing, which is more frequent the further away it gets, and it’s always further away. “I have a recurring dream about Mom,” Jennifer says, melancholy. “The dream is of a black-and-white photo.” There is a Polaroid of Mom in capris, dark hair, ashen...