I know my mother is in heaven. She told me she was going. She never lied to me.

The day after I moved to France she opened a new savings account. She saved quickly with the excitement of youth. And those little girl dreams of fashion on Paris streets, were just in reach. She got her first cancer. Then the second. And the third.

We talked about it daily. Twice daily. Maybe after this shot or this treatment. Lines of hope were fed by shopping in catalogs together online. Hope was fed with giggles and stories of what we had done, where we had been, and maybe…. So she kept dreaming and I kept dreaming. We could see it. We could here it. We could sing it — “April in Paris…”

After my last visit, about a month ago, I bought a coat at Sundance before we went to the airport. I sent her pictures, modeling just as she taught me. “It’s the perfect coat for me,” she said gleefully, “I’ve wanted it my whole life.” The dreams were still alive. I ordered from the airport gate on my iPad.

I’ve heard good things about heaven, but still, I am going to take my mother to Paris. Maybe in spring. She always loved the possibility in bloom.

If you have something to do, do it. If you have something to say, say it. Dream the dreams. Live them out loud if you can. You’ll never be sorry.