The other night I watched Bridges of Madison County for no good reason. Other than the fact that I remember it being one of my mother’s favorite movies. And maybe it’s because we’re coming up on Mother’s Day or the near-beginning of summer when I have more time to think. Or perhaps it’s because plenty has happened in the last year that I would like to discuss. I reach into strange places in hopes of finding her. Like Madison County. She was never anywhere near Iowa, though, and not at all like Meryl Streep’s character, Francesca–not from another country. Though there were times when she stood out in a crowd as if she spoke with an accent, when she was attractive in the most plain of dress. And there were dreams that she gave up in the course of her life. I see it now. I am twelve years old, sitting in the auditorium at the community college where she takes Theater. I am watching her up on stage during rehearsals for a play where she is Star of the Show. She is electric under the lights: brilliant and powerful, funny and full of character. Later, she will win an award. But after that season, she won’t go back. I don’t remember why. Only that she quit taking classes. Only that she grew quiet again. And those months become a separate season of my mother in color, a season I was privy to somehow. Privileged. To see her under the lights.