Deceased mother's kitchen Soup and grief's continuing Bond

"My mom was in the kitchen making soup. That's all the dream was, really, for a long stretch--her standing at the stove, stirring, wearing that yellow apron with the faded flower pattern, humming something I couldn't place. I knew she was gone. I knew it the whole time, standing there watching her, and I didn't say anything about it. I just watched her stir. She asked me if I wanted the good bowls, the ones we only used for company, and I said yes even though it was just us. She got them down from the top shelf like she always did, on her toes, one hand on the counter. Her hands looked right. That's the part I keep thinking about. They looked so right. We ate standing up at the counter like we used to when it was just the two of us. The soup was too hot and I burned my tongue and she laughed at me, that laugh where she shakes her head a little. I remember thinking I should ask her things. Important things. And I couldn't think of a single one. All I could think to say was "this is good," and she said "I know," which is exactly what she'd say. Then, and I don't know how we got there, we were in the car and she was driving, and she kept looking over at me while she talked, and I kept thinking "watch the road" but I didn't want to say it because what if saying it made her go away. So I just let her look. The radio played static except sometimes it was a song she liked, and she'd turn it up, and it would fade back to static. She dropped me off somewhere, I don't remember where, and as I got out I finally asked "will you be here when I get back," and she didn't answer, just smiled and did that thing where she touches my cheek with the back of her fingers. Then I woke up. And for about ten seconds I had that thing where you fully believe it, and I actually said "she's in the kitchen" out loud to my empty room. Then it settled. I lay there for a while. Made soup for dinner that night. Burned my tongue on purpose, almost."