Aura

She wore white cotton and it crinkled almost stiffly about her frame, edgy enough to be light instead of cloud vapor. She gazed into me simply, walking her son through some of his first steps in the grass, icy dry eyes darting slowly up to me from above she and her son’s bare feet.
Her son’s father just sent her a fuzzy, digital photograph of us. We’re wearing jeans and t-shirts, my figure was calm like in the photos from those days that I knew about. Her dark blonde locks curled tightly under a pink bandana. The boy was in green, too. I could swear he’d been in just a diaper as she walked him, his little hands holding the tips of her fingers above. I remember the both of them glowing.