She didn't know the words

I placed the aluminum foil at the bottom of the green ceramic bucket – the one with ‘HAPPINESS’ in English and Chinese painted in black across the front – and sprinkled potpourri inside, around the banana-nut scented candle.

"When you hear dis, it doh bring back memories?" I asked, slipping easily into dialect, nodding toward the stereo.

Roberta Flack's Softly With These Songs – my parents’ longtime favourite when they were still married and in love – poured softly into the room. It reminded me of the times they must have shared before the fighting.

"Well you hadda chose whatchu want to remember," Mom said. "Good tings or bad tings."

I disappeared to deliver the bucket to the bedroom and padded back outside.

She was sitting on the maroon futon in her off-white satin pjs, eyes closed, singing Where is the Love softly off-key, stumbling sometimes over unfamiliar words she hadn’t really listened to in decades.

I sat on the recently cleaned carpet and began singing along, trying to nudge her notes the right way with an overpowering harmony, but she would not be moved.

For some reason I knew I’d never forget that moment, sitting there with my mom, singing old songs, remembering old memories, exhaling sweet mint from mojitos.

I wonder what she was thinking.