I could imagine that this Asian woman who was kneading the pain out of my body was my mother, who used to rub my back as I fell asleep at night and squeeze my legs as I awoke in the morning. I’d close my eyes and slip deeper into the dream that she was there with me. Umma. In the flesh. And not only was she still alive, she was the young mother of my childhood, her mind still intact, her spirit full of wonder. The mother I had lost so long ago.
