It happens in threes

 I went to the art museum yesterday, now called HoMA. Paid a visit to Kwan Yin and took a photo of her shadow, thinking of my friend Kathy P., who wrote a book of poems about KY. Walked into another gallery and ran into my "mother": a Duane Hanson sculpture of a 1970s seated woman, wearing my mother's blouse, her skirt, her shoes, and her skinny legs. She was taking shorthand on a notebook. (My mother had two volumes of Gregg's Shorthand textbook, which I remembered being briefly fascinated by.) The sculptured face was different, at least. As I left the museum, I ran into Kathy, whom I'd not seen in well over a year. I said I'd thought of her, and showed her the photograph of my "mother."